THIRTY 


UNIT.  W  CALIF.  LIBRARY.  LOS  AWGBLK* 


"What  right  have  you  to  put  such  impudent  ques- 
tions to  us,  anyway"  he  demanded  hotly 

(Page  n) 


THIRTY 


BY 

HOWARD  VINCENT  O'BRIEN 

Author  of  "New  Men  for  Old." 


Illustrated  by 
ROBERT  W.  AMICK 


NEW  YORK 
DODD,  MEAD  AND  COMPANY 

1915 


COPYRIGHT.  1915 
BY  DODD    MEAD  &  COMPANY 


TO 

MY  MOTHER 

WHO  SOUGHT  ALWAYS  TO  MAKE  ME  LOVE  THE 

TRUTH,  THOUGH  KNOWING  THAT  MY  TRUTH 

WOULD  NOT,  IN  THE  NATURE  OF 

THINGS,   BE  HERS. 


2132202 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I    AN  UNINVITED  GUEST i 

II    A  BLOW  —  AND  A  RESOLUTION 31 

III  "You  DON'T  KNOW  MR.  IMRIE" 52 

IV  OIL    AND   WATER 83 

V    A  SLEEPER  WAKES 117 

VI    DEAD   IDOLS 154 

VII    "!F  PEOPLE  ONLY  Knew!" 175 

VIII    THE  GREATEST  GAME  IN  THE  WORLD 198 

IX    BURNED  BRIDGES 213 

X    A  BLUFF  CALLED 227 

XI    "TEARS  .  .  .  AND  THEN  ICE" 250 

XII    ONLY  A   WOMAN 270 

XIII  THE  PILOT  GOES  OVERBOARD 290 

XIV  A    SECRET   REVEALED 305 

XV    "THIRTY" — AND  ANOTHER  STORY 313 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

"  What  right  have  you  to  put  such  impudent  questions  to  us, 

anyway?"  he  demanded  hotly.     (Page  n)    .      .     Frontispiece 

FACING   PAGE 

It  was  hard  to  refuse  Imrie  —  a  million  times  harder  than  all 

the   rest 80 

"  I   say,  you  know,"  he  said  between   puffs,   "  business   is  the 
—  greatest  —  game  —  in  the  world" 206 

The  air  was  surcharged  with  expectancy 238 


THIRTY 


CHAPTER  I 

AN  UNINVITED  GUEST 

ROGER  WYNROD  was  the  first  down  to  breakfast,  and 
he  was  feeling  far  from  well.  But  a  glass  of  bitters, 
followed  by  half  a  grape-fruit  and  a  large  cup  of 
coffee,  made  him  more  nearly  his  usual  cheerful  self. 
He  had  a  word  and  a  smile  for  each  one  of  the  house- 
party,  as  they  straggled  in,  albeit  the  memory  of 
last  night's  disastrous  game  haunted  him  uncom- 
fortably. The  fact  was  that  once  again  he  faced 
the  necessity  of  appealing  to  his  sister  for  further 
funds,  and  he  had  his  doubts  as  to  how  she  would 
take  it. 

The  meal  lacked  something  of  the  cheer  usually 
characteristic  of  Judith  Wynrod's  gatherings.  Per- 
haps it  was  due  to  the  lateness  of  the  hour  and  the 
feverishly  high  stakes  of  the  night  before,  or  per- 
haps it  was  only  the  sultriness  of  the  morning.  At 
any  rate,  a  certain  constraint  was  in  evidence,  and 
no  one  showed  any  desire  to  linger  longer  than  was 
necessary.  As  one  by  one  her  guests  withdrew,  with 
more  or  less  perfunctory  excuses,  Judith  remained 
sprightliness  itself,  laughingly  protesting  at  the  de- 
sertion of  Faxon,  suddenly  called  to  town  on  private 
business,  and  threatening  dire  things  to  vivacious 


2  THIRTY 

little  Mrs.  Baker  if  her  dentist  detained  her  too 
long  to  catch  the  late  afternoon  train.  But  when 
they  were  all  gone,  little  lines  of  weariness  crept  into 
her  face,  and  she  arose  irresolutely  and  stood  for  a 
while  watching  her  brother  who,  deeply  sunk  in  the 
columns  of  baseball  news,  was  unconscious  of  her 
scrutiny. 

She  studied  him  thoughtfully,  the  corners  of  her 
mouth  drooping.  It  was  that  feature  which  modi- 
fied her  otherwise  complete  resemblance  to  her 
brother.  She  had  the  same  undulant  black  hair,  the 
same  oval  face  and  olive  complexion,  the  same  snap- 
ping eyes.  But  where  his  mouth  was  merely  hand- 
some, or,  perhaps,  better,  affectionate,  hers  was  firm 
and  determined.  One  might  say,  in  comparing  the 
two,  that  if  Roger  wanted  anything  he  would  ask 
for  it,  whereas  Judith  would  demand  it. 

She  herself  was  not  conscious  of  anything  ap- 
proaching such  masterfulness  or  determination  in  her 
character.  She  had  never  experienced  the  sensation 
of  breaking  down  opposition.  But  that  was  merely 
because  there  had  never  been  any  opposition  offered 
her.  Orphaned  when  scarce  out  of  childhood,  with 
an  incredible  fortune  and  no  near  relatives,  she,  like 
her  brother,  had  had  only  to  ask;  it  had  never  been 
necessary  to  demand.  But  of  the  latent  strength  of 
her  will  there  were  not  lacking  evidences. 

Be  that  as  it  may,  her  time  for  action  had  not  yet 


AN  UNINVITED  GUEST  3 

come.  How  deeply  worried  she  had  grown  about 
Roger,  no  one  guessed,  least  of  all  the  boy  himself. 
There  was  no  escaping  the  knowledge  that  she  was 
in  a  sense  responsible  for  him;  the  terms  of  their 
father's  will  had  made  her  trustee  of  her  brother's 
half  until  he  should  reach  the  age  of  thirty.  Of 
course,  she  ought  to  do  something,  she  had  often  told 
herself,  something  radical  and  decisive;  but  she  was 
too  indolent,  too  definitely  in  a  groove,  too  bored 
with  herself  and  her  surroundings,  to  take  that  keen 
interest  essential  to  decisive  action.  So,  with  another 
sigh,  she  passed  through  the  long  window  opening  on 
the  piazza,  and  thence  to  the  lawn  beyond. 

Roger  awoke  just  a  minute  too  late  to  the  fact 
that  they  had  been  alone  together  and  that  he  had 
missed  the  opportunity  he  had  been  waiting  for.  He 
always  preferred  to  approach  Judith  on  money  mat- 
ters casually,  and  not  as  though  the  occasion  were 
of  his  own  seeking.  It  certainly  was  absurd  for  a 
man  of  his  years  and  income  to  be  kept  in  leading- 
strings  by  his  own  sister.  However,  there  was  no 
help  for  it,  and  Judith  had  always  been  a  good  sort, 
he  would  say  that  for  her.  He  needed  a  cheque,  and 
he  might  as  well  get  it  over  with  at  once. 

He  found  her  in  the  garden,  examining  some  flow- 
ers which  had  just  been  set  out.  Flowers  were  her 
one  hobby,  and  he  knew  that  a  resort  to  them  usu- 
ally indicated  a  certain  degree  of  boredom  with 


4  THIRTY 

those  around  her.     But  he  went  straight  to  the  point. 

"  Say,  sis,  I'm  running  into  town  presently.  Can 
you  come  in  and  draw  me  a  cheque?  Better  make  it 
five  hundred  this  time,  to  keep  me  going  a  while." 

"  You  lost  again  last  night,  Roger?  " 

"Lost?"  He  laughed  mirthlessly.  "Lord! 
Yes,  I  lost  all  right.  The  family  resources  can  stand 
it,  can't  they?" 

"How  much?" 

"  Oh,  don't  ask  me  to  figure  now.  My  head's  like 
a  ship  in  a  storm  this  morning.  I  don't  know  — 
lots." 

"How  much,   Roger?" 

"  Oh,  come  on,  sis,  I'm  in  a  hurry.  Draw  the 
cheque  like  a  good  girl  .  .  .  let's  talk  about  it  to- 
morrow." Suddenly  he  caught  the  expression  on  his 
sister's  face.  It  was  an  expression  he  seldom  saw; 
one  that  he  did  not  like.  "  Well,  if  you  have  got  to 
have  the  horrible  truth,"  he  snapped  petulantly, 
"  I'm  cleaned  out,  .  .  .  absolute  bust  ...  I  still 
owe  a  few  hundred  to  Faxon,"  he  added  reluctantly. 

She  sighed.     "  Again." 

"  Nothing's  broken  right  for  me.  Absolutely 
nothing.  You  saw  yourself  the  way  the  cards 
treated  me  last  night." 

Her  eyes  flashed.  "  You've  got  to  be  fairly  sober 
to  play  a  decent  game  of  cards,  Roger." 

He  looked  aggrieved.     "I  was  sober  —  almost. 


AN  UNINVITED  GUEST  5 

Sober  enough,  anyway.  It  was  luck,  I  tell  you  — 
just  the  beastly  rotten  luck  I  always  have.  I  never 
did  have  any  luck,  from  the  day  I  was  born.  Why, 
any  other  chap,  with  my  chances  .  .  ." 

"  Roger,"  interrupted  his  sister  shortly,  as  if  she 
had  not  heard  him  at  all.  "  Why  do  you  find  it 
necessary  to  throw  away  every  cent  you  get? 
What's  your  idea?  " 

"My  idea?" 

"Yes.  What's  in  your  head  about  the  future? 
What  are  you  going  to  do  with  yourself?  What 
do  you  think  about  —  about  —  oh,  things  in  gen- 
eral?" 

He  looked  his  bewilderment.  "  I'm  afraid  I 
don't  quite  connect,  sis  .  .  ." 

"  I  want  to  know  if  you've  —  well  —  I'd  like  to 
know  .  .  .  just  how  you  stand  with  yourself." 

Her  brother  eyed  her  curiously.  "  What's 
struck  you  anyway?  "  he  demanded.  "  What's  hap- 
pened to  make  you  take  on  like  this  all  of  a  sud- 
den? " 

"  Nothing.  It's  not  sudden.  I've  wanted  to 
have  this  talk  with  you  for  a  long  time  —  not  that 
it  does  any  good,  .  .  .  we'll  probably  drag  along 
the  same  old  way."  She  sat  thoughtfully  silent  for  a 
moment.  "  I'll  draw  you  a  cheque,  of  course,"  she 
added  listlessly.  "  You  must  pay  up  your  debts 
at  once.  But  you  do  worry  me  .  .  ." 


6  THIRTY 

"Miss  Wynrod?" 

"What  is  it,  Huldah?" 

Roger  stopped  his  discourse  and  the  maid  ad- 
vanced with  a  card.  Judith  took  it  and  knitted  her 
brows  as  she  read. 

"Who  is  it,  sis?" 

"  *  Brent  Good,'  "  she  read,  "  '  The  Workman's 
World.' " 

"  Well,  he  has  got  nerve,"  cried  Roger.  "  That's 
that  Socialist  sheet,  isn't  it?  Why,  they  take  a  crack 
at  us  once  a  week  regular.  And  now  they've  got 
the  gall  to  send  a  man  out  here.  Tell  him  to  go  to 
the  devil." 

Judith  turned  to  the  maid.  "  Tell  him  that  I 
am  not  at  home,  please,  Huldah." 

"  I  thought  that  would  be  the  message,"  said  a 
cheerful  voice  beyond  the  hedge,  "  so  I  didn't  wait 
for  it."  A  moment  later  a  tall  figure  of  a  man 
emerged  and  took  off  his  hat  with  an  awkward  bow. 

"  Good  morning,  Miss  Wynrod."  His  bronzed, 
angular  face,  with  its  deep-set  eyes  and  wide  mouth, 
softened  in  a  smile  which  was  undeniably  pleasing. 

Judith  surveyed  his  shabby  figure,  compounded  of 
all  manner  of  curious  depressions  and  protuberances, 
and  half  smiled  herself.  His  cheerfulness  was  in- 
fectious. Also,  his  appearance  was  almost  comic, 
which  was  paradoxical  in  a  representative  of  so 
savage  an  organ  as  The  Workman's  World.  Then 


AN  UNINVITED  GUEST  7 

she  recalled  the  circumstances  of  his  intrusion,  and 
when  she  spoke  her  voice  was  chill. 

"  I  believe  you  heard  my  message." 

"  Clearly.  But  if  you  had  known  that  I  had  come 
all  the  way  out  from  the  city  on  a  very  hot  morning, 
merely  to  do  you  a  favour,  I  don't  think  you  would 
have  given  it."  He  surveyed  her  reproachfully. 
Then  his  lips  parted  again  in  a  smile.  "  Won't  you 
give  me  five  minutes,  Miss  Wynrod  —  please." 

Judith  was  no  exception  to  the  rule  that  curios- 
ity is  a  dominant  motive  in  human  conduct.  Be- 
sides, she  had  already  succumbed  to  the  curious 
stranger's  magnetic  geniality. 

She  hesitated.  "  Well  .  .  ."  He  took  it  to  be 
acquiescence. 

:'  Thanks  very  much.  Now  could  I  have  this 
five  minutes  with  you  —  alone?  " 

Roger  frowned  at  the  request,  and  winked  at  his 
sister. 

'  This  is  my  brother.  Anything  that  concerns 
me  will  concern  him." 

The  stranger's  demeanour  was  unruffled. 

"  I  see.  And  I  am  very  glad.  What  I  have  to 
say  does  concern  your  brother  quite  as  much  as  it 
concerns  yourself." 

"  Fire  away!  "  interrupted  Roger.  Curiosity  is 
by  no  means  a  distinctively  feminine  weakness. 

The  occupant  of  the  shabby  brown  suit  removed 


8  THIRTY 

his  almost  equally  brown  straw  hat  and  laid  it  on 
the  grass. 

"  It's  hot,  isn't  it,"  he  smiled.  It  was  difficult 
to  resist  that  smile.  Judith  invited  him  to  be 
seated.  And  although  she  herself  remained  stand- 
ing, he  accepted  the  invitation  with  alacrity.  She 
marked  that  against  him,  although  his  next  remark 
appeased  her  somewhat. 

"  It's  a  long  walk  up  from  the  station,"  he  said, 
carefully  removing  the  abundant  perspiration  from 
his  craggy  forehead.  "  Pretty  road,  though,"  he 
added. 

Judith  was  content  to  let  him  take  his  own  time. 
But  Roger  was  more  impatient. 

"  You  have  something  to  say  to  us?  " 

"  Yes,"  he  admitted,  "  I  have." 

"  Well  ...    ?  " 

Mr.  Good  looked  from  brother  to  sister.  An  ex- 
pression of  half-humorous  dismay  crossed  his  face, 
an  expression  which  both  of  them  caught,  but  neither 
understood.  Then  he  drew  a  long  breath  and  care- 
fully folded  his  handkerchief.  One  long,  lean  fore- 
finger shot  out  suddenly  toward  Judith,  and  the  quiz- 
zical little  smile  vanished  from  his  lips. 

"  You  know,  Miss  Wynrod,  of  the  terrible  situa- 
tion down  in  the  Algoma  mines.  You  know  of  the 
bloodshed,  the  pitched  battles  between  strikers  and 
mine-guards.  And  worst  of  all," —  With  a  rapid 


AN  UNINVITED  GUEST  9 

gesture,  contrasting  strongly  with  the  languorous 
slowness  of  his  movements  before,  he  drew  a  folded 
newspaper  from  one  of  his  bulging  pockets  — "  You 
must  have  read  this  morning  of  the  burning  to  death 
of  twenty-two  women  and  children  —  the  families 
of  the  striking  miners." 

Judith  had  read  the  story.  That  is,  she  had 
glanced  at  the  headlines,  and  realising  the  horror 
of  their  import,  and  at  the  same  time  feeling  that 
there  was  no  particular  interest  for  her,  had  passed 
on  to  closer  and  less  unpleasant  interests.  She  re- 
mained silent  before  the  tall  stranger's  accusing 
finger.  Her  curiosity  was  more  piqued  than  ever. 
But  Roger  was  angered. 

'Well  —  and  what  of  it?"  he  demanded  with 
ill-concealed  truculence. 

The  tall  man  turned  his  serious  gaze  on  Roger. 

"  I  suppose  you  are  familiar  with  this  terrible 
situation,  too,"  he  said,  half  interrogatively. 

"  Suppose  I  am.  What  of  it.  I  say?  "  Roger 
knew  nothing  whatever  about  it,  of  course,  and  from 
the  other  man's  sudden,  half-veiled  smile,  it  was 
perfectly  obvious  that  he  knew  that  he  did  not.  He 
turned  suddenly  from  Roger  with  a  faint  gesture  of 
his  long  hand  that  seemed  to  sweep  that  young  man 
totally  out  of  the  discussion. 

Then  Judith,  offended,  although  Roger  himself 
was  hardly  conscious  of  the  rebuff,  spoke  for  him. 


io  THIRTY 

"  Yes,"  she  said  with  deliberate  coldness.  "  We 
know  all  about  it.  But  what  of  it?  " 

"  Simply  this,  Miss  Wynrod,"  said  Good  crisply, 
and  with  a  hint  of  hostility  in  his  manner.  '  You 
are  a  large  stockholder  in  several  of  the  Algoma 
mines.  The  blood  of  those  murdered  miners  is  on 
your  head  —  and  those  innocent  women  and  chil- 
dren burned  to  death  by  your  hirelings.  Whether 
you  know  it  or  not,  you  have  a  responsibility  for  the 
situation,  and  I  have  come  here  to-day  to  find  out 
what  you  are  going  to  do  about  it  all?  " 

"Do  about  it?"  cried  Judith,  amazed  by  the 
suddenness  of  his  attack.  "  I'm  afraid  I  don't  un- 
derstand." 

The  stranger's  mood  softened  and  his  voice  be- 
came quieter. 

"  I  want  to  find  out  what  you  think  about  things 
—  things  in  general  —  what  you  are  going  to  do 
with  the  great  wealth  which  is  yours,  what  part 
you  are  going  to  play  in  the  changing  world.  This 
business  at  Algoma  —  that's  only  a  part  of  the 
whole.  I  want  to  find  out  what  —  well  —  what  you 
really  are?" 

Judith  could  have  laughed  aloud  at  the  irony  of 
the  question  which  this  uncouth  stranger  was  put- 
ting to  her.  It  was,  almost  to  the  words,  the  same 
question  she  had  put  to  her  brother  not  half  an  hour 
before.  What  did  she  think  about  things?  Why 


AN  UNINVITED  GUEST  n 

were  people  suddenly  so  interested  in  what  other 
people  thought? 

But  the  similarity  was  not  apparent  to  Roger. 
The  question  caused  him  no  introspection:  only 
anger. 

"  What  right  have  you  to  put  such  impudent  ques- 
tions to  us,  anyway,"  he  demanded  hotly.  '  Who 
the  devil  are  you  to  intrude  on  us  in  this  fashion? 
You'd  best  get  out  before  I  have  you  put  out." 

The  tall  man  made  no  move  to  rise  from  his 
chair  as  Roger  stood  threateningly  above  him.  He 
merely  turned  his  hands  up  in  a  quaint  gesture  of 
deprecation. 

"  Bless  your  heart,  young  chap,  I'm  not  putting 
any  questions.  If  you'll  glance  at  my  card,  you'll 
notice  that  my  business  comes  before  my  name.  I'm 
simply  the  spokesman  of  a  newspaper  .  .  ." 

"Newspaper!"  sneered  Roger.  "Do  you  call 
that  anarchist  rag  a  newspaper?  " 

But  the  other  man  refused  to  be  interrupted.  He 
proceeded  equably.  "  And  that  newspaper,  in  turn, 
is  simply  the  spokesman  of  the  public.  It's  the  pub- 
lic that  wants  to  know  who  you  are  —  and  what 
you  are  —  not  I.  Personally,  to  be  quite  candid, 
I  don't  care  a  farthing.  But  .  .  ." 

'  Well,  and  what  right  has  the  public  to  come 
prying  into  our  private  affairs?*"  interrupted  Roger 
again.  "  It's  none  of  their  business.  This  is  sup- 


12  THIRTY 

posed  to  be  a  free  country.  Why  don't  you  give 
law-abiding  private  citizens  a  little  freedom  and 
privacy?  You  force  your  way  in  where  you  aren't 
wanted  and  insult  us  and  then  say  it's  because  the 
public  wants  to  know.  What  business  is  it  of  the 
public's  what  we  do  and  what  we  think?  " 

The  stranger  smiled  benignly. 

"  My  dear  young  man,"  he  said  calmly,  as  he 
folded  up  his  newspaper  and  fitted  it  into  his  pocket. 
"  That's  old,  old  stuff.  You're  'way  behind  the 
times.  That  rode  into  the  discard  on  the  tumbrels  of 
the  Revolution.  As  an  individual,  nobody  cares  a 
rap  about  you.  As  the  possessor  of  a  great  fortune, 
the  public  is  very  keenly  interested  in  your  lightest 
thought.  But  I'm  not  going  to  attempt  to  give  you 
a  lesson  in  elementary  history.  Your  sister  can,  I 
am  sure,  do  that  for  me." 

He  turned  to  her  with  the  same  galling  indiffer- 
ence that  had  so  offended  Roger  before.  She  could 
not  but  admire  the  assurance  of  his  manner  in  the 
face  of  such  open  hostility. 

"  Miss  Wynrod,"  he  went  on  calmly,  "  I  do  hope 
you  will  talk  to  me  frankly.  Won't  you  tell  me 
what  you  honestly  think  of  your  relations,  first  to 
this  business  at  Algoma,  and  then  .  .  ." 

"  Don't  say  a  word,"  interrupted  Roger.  "  Re- 
member the  sheet  nl  represents." 

Judith  did  remember,  and  the  recollection  made 


AN  UNINVITED  GUEST  13 

her  angry.  She  smarted  still  at  the  cartoons  and 
denunciatory  editorials  in  which  she  had  so  fre- 
quently been  singled  out  for  attack. 

"  Don't  you  think  it's  just  a  little  curious,  Mr. 
Good,"  she  asked  quietly,  "  that  you  should  come 
to  me  in  this  way  when  you  must  know  how  your 
own  paper  has  treated  me?" 

A  pained  expression  crossed  his  eyes. 

"  It  is  a  little  queer,"  he  admitted.  "  And  hon- 
estly I  don't  like  the  roasts  they  give  you  any  bet- 
ter than  you  do.  But  don't  you  see  that  in  a  way 
you're  responsible  for  them?  You  never  come  back. 
You  just  hide.  People  don't  know  what  you  think. 
All  they  see  is  the  results  —  what  you  do  —  or  what 
they  think  you  do  ...  and  that  amounts  to  the  same 
thing,  doesn't  it?  Now  if  you'd  just  discuss  the 
Algoma  situation,  and  give  me  some  idea  of  what 
you  think  its  causes  are,  and  what  part  you  think 
you  ought  to  play  in  making  things  better,  it'll  go 
a  long  way  toward  making  the  public  understand 
you  better  and  sympathise  with  you.  They  think 
that  life's  a  rose  garden  to  you,  you  know.  They 
never  dream  that  you  have  troubles,  too.  You  never 
tell  them.  All  you  show  is  the  contented  side  of 
your  life,  the  luxury,  the  pleasure,  the  idleness. 
Why  not  take  them  into  your  confidence?  " 

Of  the  shabby  stranger's  earnestness  there  could 
be  no  doubt.  His  long  arms  waved  and  the  per- 

I 


i4  THIRTf 

spiration  welled  out  on  his  cheeks  as  he  strove  to 
present  his  arguments.  At  intervals  Roger  sneered 
audibly,  though  Judith  listened  attentively.  But 
when  he  paused  for  breath,  she  shook  her  head. 

"  I  sympathise  with  your  point  of  view,"  she  said 
with  an  effort  at  finality.  "  But  I  have  nothing  to 
say." 

But  he  refused  to  be  put  off.  "  But  Miss  Wyn- 
rod,  can't  you  see  what  an  opportunity  I'm  giving? 
Here's  a  chance  for  you  to  set  yourself  right  with 
the  people.  They  think  you  live  for  nothing  but 
money.  They  think  you  could  fix  everything  up 
into  an  imitation  of  Heaven  if  you  only  weren't 
greedy.  Why  don't  you  show  them  that  you  are 
doing  all  you  can,  that  you're  thinking  about 
things,  that  you're  not  the  heartless,  selfish,  narrow, 
stupid  creature  they  think  you  are.  This  is  an  op- 
portunity to  make  yourself  loved  instead  of  hated. 
Why,  Miss  Wynrod,  if  you'll  make  a  statement,  I'll 
bring  the  proofs  to  you  to  correct.  I  won't  put  a 
comma  in  that  you  don't  want.  Wouldn't  that  be 
better  than  to  go  back  and  write  a  story  and  say 
that  when  I  asked  you  what  you  thought  about  the 
burning  to  death  of  twenty-two  women  and  children 
in  one  of  your  own  mines,  by  your  own  hirelings, 
you  replied  that  you  had  nothing  to  say?  " 

Roger  was  speechless  with  wrath  at  this  torrent 
of  what  he  thought  was  abuse,  failing  to  distinguish 


JSS 

AN  UNINVITED  GUEST  15 

between  the  general  and  the  specific.  It  was  only 
by  an  effort  of  will  that  he  restrained  himself  from 
laying  violent  hands  on  this  threadbare  creature 
with  the  eloquent  tongue,  who,  it  appeared  to  him, 
was  deliberately  insulting  his  sister.  But  Judith 
herself  felt  no  rancour.  Indeed  she  felt  the  mag- 
netism of  the  reporter  more  strongly  with  each  word, 
and  it  never  occurred  to  impugn  the  sincerity  of  his 
outburst  —  nor  its  justice.  Her  face  struggled 
painfully  in  an  effort  to  be  cold  and  impassive  as  she 
barely  whispered  again  her  refusal  to  speak. 

Good  studied  her  for  a  moment.  Then  he 
smiled,  quite  cheerfully.  All  his  hot  tensity  van- 
ished suddenly. 

"  I  think  I  understand,"  he  said  quietly.  "  It 
isn't  that  you  won't  talk  to  me  —  but  you  can't. 
You  can't  tell  me  what  you  think  about  these  things 
—  because  you  haven't  thought  about  them.  But 
you're  going  to,  Miss  Wynrod,  you're  going  to. 
Some  day  I  shall  come  back,  and  then  you  will  talk 
to  me.  Perhaps  you  will  even  ask  me  to  come 
back." 

Roger  laughed  at  that,  but  Judith  was  silent. 
She  had  a  curious  and  not  at  all  pleasant  sense  that 
this  curious,  contradictory,  talkative  stranger,  with 
his  grotesque  form  and  clothes,  and  bad  manners, 
not  to  say  impudence,  knew  her  better  than  she  knew 
herself.  He  was  perfectly  right.  She  tried  to  tell 


1 6  THIRTY 

herself  that  her  refusal  to  talk  to  him  was  dictated 
by  a  finely  conscious  dignity.  But  she  knew  very 
well  that  such  was  not  the  case.  He  had  indeed 
spoken  truly  when  he  said  that  she  could  not  talk 
because  she  had  not  thought.  She  had  not.  And 
she  was  not  at  all  incredulous  at  his  prophecy  that 
she  might  one  day  call  him  back.  She  would  think 
more  about  these  matters  —  she  had  begun,  per- 
force but  none  the  less  certainly,  to  think  about 
them  already. 

The  reporter,  still  studying  her  quizzically,  and 
so  intently  as  to  make  her  consciously  uncomfortable, 
rose  slowly. 

"  I'm  sorry,  Miss  Wynrod.  I've  had  a  wasted 
trip  —  and  yet  I  haven't.  You're  beginning  to 
think.  Some  day  you  will  talk.  Perhaps  I  shall 
be  present.  I  am  glad  we  have  become  friends  — 
you,  too,  Mr.  Wynrod.  Good  morning." 

In  spite  of  his  awkwardness,  his  movements  were 
rapid.  It  seemed  almost  like  a  fairy  disappearance, 
so  quickly  was  he  out  of  sight  behind  the  hedge. 
Only  his  dilapidated  straw  hat  could  be  seen  bobbing 
rythmically  out  of  view. 

"Well,  of  all  cranks,"  laughed  Roger.  "And 
the  nerve  of  him.  Did  you  hear  his  calm  assump- 
tion that  we  have  now  become  fast  friends?  Can 
you  beat  it?  " 

But  Judith  said:  "  It's  a  long  road  to  the  station. 


AN  UNINVITED  GUEST  17 

I  should  have  sent  the  car."  And  then,  suddenly 
feeling  an  unaccountable  distaste  for  her  brother's 
society,  she  went  thoughtfully  into  the  house. 

In  the  hall  she  encountered  Faxon,  in  search  of 
her.  He  had  to  make  the  10.46,  and  had  none  too 
much  time  to  get  to  the  station. 

"  Joris  will  take  you  down,"  she  said  mechan- 
ically, when  he  had  explained. 

"  He's  taken  Alder  and  some  of  the  others  up  to 
the  golf  club." 

"AndPicard?" 

"  He's  off  somewhere,  too." 

"  How  stupid.  Well,  I'll  take  you  down  myself. 
Let's  see.  Oh,  we  can  make  it  easily.  It's  only  a 
quarter  past  now.  I'll  have  the  electric  around  in 
a  moment." 

While  she  waited  for  the  car  to  be  brought 
around,  she  found  herself  responding  perfunctorily 
to  Mr.  Faxon's  running  comment  on  all  sorts  of 
things  in  general,  conscious  that  for  the  first  time 
he  was  rather  tiresome.  She  had  never  taken  his 
attentions  to  herself  seriously.  She  knew  that  he 
had  a  certain  interest  in  pretty  Delia  Baker  rather 
warmer  than  was  permissible  in  the  case  of  a  mar- 
ried woman,  and  she  shut  her  eyes  to  the  fact  that 
her  house  gave  them  opportunities  to  meet  that  they 
would  not  otherwise  have  had.  Yet  she  believed 
there  was  no  real  harm  in  Delia,  and  as  for  Faxon, 


1 8  THIRTY 

—  well,  he  had  flirted  with  so  many  women  in  his 
time  that  she  could  not  take  him  altogether  seriously 
either  with  herself  or  with  others.  And  he  usually 
succeeded  in  being  amusing.  But  to-day  she  had  no 
desire  to  be  amused.  She  was  thinking  earnestly  for 
perhaps  the  first  time  in  her  life  .  .  .  wondering 
what  she  really  did  think  about  things  in  general. 

As  she  seated  herself  in  the  car  and  Faxon 
climbed  in  beside  her,  she  grew  more  silent,  and  her 
thoughts  strayed  very  far  away  from  Braeburn.  In 
spite  of  a  very  considerable  reluctance  on  her  part, 
they  persisted  in  wandering  to  an  ugly  little  collec- 
tion of  shanties,  piled  helter-skelter  in  the  midst 
of  lowering  hills,  where  men  went  down  into  the 
earth  and  came  up  —  something  less  than  men  — 
where  twenty-two  .  .  .  over  and  over  again  that 
wretched  phrase  persisted  in  repeating  itself,  until 
she  wanted  to  scream.  Why  had  she  ever  allowed 
that  disagreeable  stranger  to  spoil  her  day? 

Suddenly,  as  if  to  punctuate  her  thoughts,  she 
caught  sight  of  a  familiar  figure  marching  jerkily 
along  the  dusty  road  in  front  of  her.  He  was  even 
more  grotesque  from  behind,  but  there  was  some- 
thing pathetic  in  the  weary  droop  of  his  shoulders. 
She  felt  acutely  conscious  of  the  comfort  of  her 
vehicle. 

Two  or  three  times  as  she  neared  the  angular 
pedestrian,  she  rang  her  bell.  But  he  either  did 


AN  UNINVITED  GUEST  19 

not  hear  it  or  he  did  not  notice  it;  for  he  kept  on  in 
his  uneven  stride,  with  his  head  bent  well  forward, 
and  his  bedraggled  straw  almost  over  his  ears. 

She  was  almost  upon  him,  and  the  narrowness  of 
the  road  showed  little  clearance  between  him  and 
the  machine,  when  she  rang  again.  The  sound 
seemed  to  startle  and  confuse  him.  His  head  rose 
with  a  jerk  and  he  stopped  short.  Then  he 
stepped,  with  the  utmost  deliberateness,  directly  in 
the  path  of  the  approaching  car. 

With  all  the  power  in  her  lithe  body,  Judith 
jammed  on  both  brakes.  But  it  was  too  late. 
There  was  a  crash  of  glass  as  Faxon's  cane  went 
through  the  window.  On  her  knees  where  she  had 
been  thrown  by  the  suddenness  of  the  stop  she  heard 
his  "  damned  ass !  "  gritted  through  his  teeth.  She 
remembered  afterward  that  she  had  wondered 
whether  the  epithet  was  for  herself  or  for  the 
stranger  in  the  road.  But  at  the  time  she  heard 
only  the  horrible  crunch  of  steel  against  flesh,  the 
muffled  snap  as  of  a  broken  twig,  and  a  low  groan, 
twice  repeated. 

Faxon  was  out  of  the  car  in  an  instant,  and  stand- 
ing in  the  road,  his  face  white  as  chalk,  frantically 
motioning  to  her  to  reverse.  In  a  daze  she  put  on 
the  power,  and  when  she  had  moved  back  a  few 
feet,  followed  him  outside. 

But  her  daze  was  only  momentary.     For  just  an 


20  THIRTY 

instant  she  stood  stupidly  watching  Faxon  struggle 
with  a  dreadfully  inanimate  brown  mass.  Then 
she  became  herself. 

"  Here,"  she  cried.  "  In  the  car  —  quick."  And 
when  Faxon  seemed  indecisive,  she  laid  hold  of  the 
unconscious  figure  herself  and  helped  to  lift  it  into 
the  machine. 

As  she  climbed  in  after  it,  Faxon  made  as  if  to 
follow  her.  But  she  waved  him  off. 

"  You  can  make  that  train  if  you  hurry,"  she  said 
sharply.  "  It's  only  a  little  way  to  the  station." 
And  with  that  she  tossed  his  cane  to  him,  and  all 
but  kicked  his  bag  after  it. 

Faxon  expostulated,  but  she  was  too  occupied  in 
turning  her  car  around  to  heed  him.  The  sudden 
sharp  hum  of  the  motor  as  she  jumped  from  speed 
to  speed  made  him  realise  the  futility  of  his  pro- 
tests, and  so,  philosophically,  but  not  a  little  shaken 
by  the  suddenness  of  it  all,  he  picked  up  his  bag  and 
stick  and  made  for  the  station. 

Judith,  as  she  sped  homeward,  did  not  trust  her- 
self to  glance  at  the  crumpled  figure  on  the  floor  be- 
side her.  And  over  and  over  again,  as  she  urged 
the  car  to  its  utmost,  she  kept  repeating  an  almost 
wordless  prayer  — 

"  I  mustn't  faint  ...  I  mustn't  faint  ...  I 
mustn't  .  .  ." 

She  was  almost  home  when  the  brown  bundle 


AN  UNINVITED  GUEST  21 

stirred  faintly,  and  she  caught  a  weak  groan.  Still 
she  dared  not  look.  It  was  only  when  she  was 
forced  to,  that  she  turned  her  eyes  in  answer  to  a 
weakly  whispered  question. 

"What's  up?" 

"  Oh,  I'm  so  glad!  "  she  breathed,  more  to  her- 
self than  to  him,  "  so  glad  ...  I  thought  .  .  ." 
Then,  a  little  louder  — "  Where  are  you  hurt?  " 

"  My  leg,  I  think,"  said  the  injured  man,  in  a 
voice  that  was  a  pitiful  travesty  of  the  one  that  had 
talked  to  her  so  earnestly  in  her  garden,  only  a  few 
minutes  before.  "  It  —  it  hurts  like  the  dickens." 

She  rang  her  bell  frantically  all  the  way  up  the 
drive  to  the  house,  and  there  were  half  a  dozen  ex- 
cited people  to  meet  her.  She  was  far  calmer  than 
they  and  she  superintended  the  removal  of  Good 
from  the  car  with  perfect  impassiveness.  But  he 
had  lost  consciousness  again,  and  the  sight  of  his 
bloodless  face,  deathly  pallid  save  for  the  crimson 
splash  on  one  cheek,  almost  unnerved  her. 

'  Take  him  to  the  grey  room,  Portis,"  she  said 
quietly.  "  And  tell  somebody  to  get  Dr.  Ruetter. 
He's  staying  at  Mrs.  Craven's.  Please  hurry." 
It  was  very  hard  to  keep  her  voice  calm,  but  she 
managed  to  accomplish  it. 

Finally,  when  she  could  think  of  nothing  else  to 
do,  and  to  the  very  great  amazement  of  everyone, 
she  suddenly  collapsed  in  a  dead  faint. 


22  THIRTY 

When  she  came  to  herself  again,  Dr.  Ruetter  was 
standing  over  her. 

"  Well,  young  lady,"  he  said  cheerfully.  '  You've 
made  quite  a  morning  of  it." 

Her  first  thought  was  of  Good. 

"Tell  me,"  she  cried  anxiously.  "How  is  he? 
Is  he  very  badly  hurt?  Will  he  die?  " 

"  Unquestionably,"  smiled  the  Doctor.  But 
when  she  sank  back  with  a  groan,  he  added,  "  just 
like  we  all  will." 

"  Oh.     Then  he  isn't  fatally  hurt?  " 

"  Bless  you,  no !  Broken  leg,  that's  all.  Bad 
break,  I'll  admit  —  compound  fracture  —  but  noth- 
ing to  cause  alarm." 

"  But  he's  got  to  go  to  a  hospital,"  spoke  up 
Roger,  whom  she  had  not  noticed  before. 

"The  hospital?     Who  said  so?" 

"  The  Doctor.     He  says  .  .  ." 

"  Oh,  by  all  means,"  said  the  Doctor,  quite  as  if 
the  prospect  gave  him  personal  pleasure.  "  This 
isn't  a  bruised  finger,  you  know.  That  chap  won't 
be  up  and  around  for  three  weeks  or  a  month  at  least. 
The  hospital's  the  place  for  him." 

"  What  hospital?  "  asked  Judith  thoughtfully. 

"  Judging  by  his  clothes,  I  should  say  the  County." 

Judith  sat  bolt  upright  at  that. 

"  He  will  not  go  to  the  County  Hospital,"  she 
said  with  finality.  "  He  won't  go  to  any  hospital." 


AN  UNINVITED  GUEST  23 

"  Don't  get  excited,  sis,"  said  Roger  with  sooth- 
ing intent.  But  his  words  had  the  opposite  effect. 

"  He's  going  to  stay  right  where  he  is,"  she  con- 
tinued. "  It's  the  least  I  can  do,  after  nearly  killing 
him." 

"  That's  very  kind  and  good,  of  course,"  said  the 
Doctor  in  obedience  to  a  glance  from  Roger.  "  But 
I'm  afraid  you  don't  quite  understand.  He'll  be 
laid  up  for  a  long  time  —  six  weeks,  perhaps.  And 
really,  he'd  be  better  off  in  a  hospital." 

"  Don't  talk  nonsense,"  said  Judith  sharply.  "  Is 
he  going  to  need  treatment?  " 

"  Well,  no,"  admitted  the  Doctor  in  some  con- 
fusion. 

"  It's  purely  a  matter  of  convalescence.  He'll  be 
far  more  comfortable  here.  He'll  stay  here.  Now 
please  go  away  and  let  me  alone.  I'm  all  fagged 
out." 

The  Doctor  pleaded  and  cajoled,  even,  in  obe- 
dience to  further  glances  from  Roger,  ventured  to 
order.  But  Judith  merely  closed  her  eyes  and  re- 
fused to  listen  to  him  at  all.  Finally,  being  some- 
thing of  a  philosopher,  he  wished  her  a  very  pleas- 
ant good  morning,  and  went  on  his  way. 

Roger  continued  to  storm,  though  quite  inef- 
fectually. 

'  Why,  confound  it,  sis,"  he  cried  in  exasperation, 
"  what's  the  sense  in  playing  lady  bountiful  to  a 


24  THIRTY 

fellow  who'll  make  use  of  his  first  day  of  health  to 
enter  a  whopping  big  suit  for  damages  against  you  ?  " 

"  Does  he  strike  you  as  that  sort  of  a  chap?" 
she  asked  mildly. 

"  You  know  how  he  feels  toward  people  like  us. 
He  told  you,  himself.  He'd  think  it  a  sin  to  let 
a  chance  go  by  to  soak  us.  He'd  probably  feel 
justified  by  the  way  we  treated  him  this  morning." 

'  We  weren't  very  cordial,  were  we?  " 

"  Cordial!  I  told  him  to  get  out  before  I  threw 
him  out.  Why,  he's  as  full  of  grievances  as  a  cat 
is  fleas.  Mark  my  words,  the  only  gratitude  you'll 
get  will  be  a  good  fat  damage  suit.  And  you  know 
how  much  of  a  chance  you'd  have  against  him." 

14  Well,  he'd  deserve  something,  wouldn't  he?" 
asked  Judith.  "  He'll  probably  lose  his  position  if 
he's  going  to  be  laid  up  for  six  weeks." 

Roger  looked  at  her  in  amazement. 

"  Say,  are  you  going  daffy?  "  Then  he  reflected 
for  a  moment.  '  That's  not  a  bad  idea,  sis.  I 
might  give  him  a  couple  of  hundred  in  exchange 
for  a  quit  claim.  That's  what  the  railroads  do  in 
their  accidents.  A  hundred  or  two  will  look  bigger 
to  him  right  now  than  a  thousand  next  year.  I'll 
get  him  before  any  shyster  lawyer  does.  I'll  fix  it 
up,  all  right.  Don't  you  worry,  sis.  That  crazy 
anarchist  won't  trouble  you  .  .  ." 

But  Judith  was  not  worrying.     Her  eyes   had 


AN  UNINVITED  GUEST  25 

closed  again  in  a  perfectly  obvious  simulation  of 
sleep.  For  a  moment  Roger  looked  a  little  hurt 
by  this  indifferent  reception  of  his  idea.  Then  he 
tiptoed  quietly  out  of  the  room. 

Full  of  his  plan,  he  hastened  to  the  grey  room, 
where  the  tall  stranger  lay,  all  his  cheerful  smile 
lost  in  the  twisted  grin  of  pain. 

But  he  managed  somehow  to  smile,  after  a  fashion 
at  least,  when  Roger  came  in. 

"  Hello,"  he  said,  with  something  of  his  charac- 
teristic buoyancy. 

"  Hello,"  said  Roger,  trying  to  be  casual. 
"  How  you  feeling?  " 

"  Ever  see  a  hog  skinned?  "  grinned  the  tall  man. 
"  That's  how." 

Roger's  sympathies  were  stirred.  He  was  really 
a  very  tender-hearted  lad.  But  he  was  not  to  be 
swerved  from  his  purpose.  He  had  a  duty  to  per- 
form. 

"  Bad  business,"  he  said  seriously,  seating  him- 
self beside  the  bed.  Then  he  nodded  to  the  maid, 
who  had  been  detailed  to  act  as  nurse,  to  leave  the 
room.  When  she  had  closed  the  door,  he  turned 
confidentially  to  Good. 

b'  I  say,  old  man,"  he  said  with  something  of  em- 
barrassment in  his  manner,  "  you're  going  to  be 
laid  up  for  a  good  stretch,  you  know,  and  you  may 
lose  your  job  and  all  that  — " 


26  THIRTY 

"  Tweedledee,"  said  the  tall  man.  '  You  can't 
lose  what  you  haven't  got." 

Roger  was  at  a  loss  just  how  to  answer  that 
sally,  so  he  decided  to  overlook  it. 

"  You're  bound  to  be  considerably  put  out,"  he 
went  on. 

"  Considerably  is  right,"  chuckled  Good. 

Roger  found  it  very  difficult,  much  more  so  than 
he  had  expected,  to  talk  to  this  curious  creature. 
But  he  was  persistent. 

'  Well,  we  don't  intend  that  you  shall  lose  any- 
thing," he  said  in  as  friendly  a  way  as  he  could. 
But  it  was  a  little  too  friendly.  It  was  the  tone  with 
which  one  offers  a  tip.  "  I'll  give  you  a  cheque  for 
two  hundred  dollars  —  all  the  doctor's  bills  paid  — 
and — "  He  drew  a  cheque  book  from  his  pocket 
and  unscrewed  his  fountain  pen.  "  How  shall  I 
make  it  out?  " 

Good  raised  his  hand.  "  Cut  that,"  he  said 
shortly. 

Roger  misconstrued  the  gesture.  It  irritated 
him. 

"Don't  you  think  it's  —  enough?"  he  asked 
bluntly. 

But  the  tall  man  only  smiled. 

"Oh,  forget  it,"  he  said.  "Why  should  you 
give  me  any  money.  You  can  pay  the  bills  if  you 
want  to.  Guess  you'll  have  to  if  the  medico's  going 


AN  UNINVITED  GUEST  27 

to  get  anything.     That'll  call  it  square,  I  guess." 

"  How  about  the  six  weeks'  lay-up?  " 

"  I'll  get  a  good  rest  and  plenty  to  eat  —  at  the 
county's  expense.  Why  should  I  worry?"  smiled 
Good. 

"  Then  you  refuse  to  accept  a  cheque?  "  demanded 
Roger. 

"  Of  course." 

Roger  was  so  full  of  his  own  suspicions  that  it 
never  occurred  to  him  to  question  their  justice. 
And  the  blithe  and  offhand  way  in  which  this  raga- 
muffin declined  his  cheque  only  seemed  to  confirm 
his  belief  that  he  was  playing  for  higher  stakes. 
He  lost  his  patience  entirely. 

'  You'd  rather  wait  till  you  can  get  some  quack 
lawyer,"  he  sneered,  "  and  then  try  to  bleed  us 
for  a  big  wad,  eh?  " 

The  man  on  the  bed  opened  his  eyes  in  amaze- 
ment. 

"  Good  Lord,"  he  cried,  "  what  kind  of  people 
have  you  been  brought  up  with?  " 

'  Well,  just  let  me  tell  you,  my  friend,"  went  on 
Roger  hotly,  "  that  you  won't  get  a  cent  by  that 
game.  My  sister  has  a  witness  to  prove  that  the 
accident  was  all  your  own  fault  .  .  ," 

'  Well,"  interrupted  the  stranger,  a  little 
wearily,  "  that's  right.  What  are  you  fussing 
about?" 


28  THIRTY 

It  was  Roger's  turn  to  open  his  eyes  in  amaze- 
ment. 

"  You  mean  —  you  admit  —  it  was  your  fault?  " 
he  stammered. 

"  Of  course.  I  was  thinking  about  —  some- 
thing else  —  usually  am  —  when  your  sister  rang 
her  bell.  I  didn't  hear  it,  at  first.  When  I  did, 
I  —  well  —  I  don't  know  —  guess  I  just  stepped 
the  wrong  way.  It's  my  own  fault  for  getting 
chewed  up.  Don't  worry,  my  boy,  there  won't  be 
any  damage  suit.  I  haven't  any  claim  —  besides 
I'm  a  good  sight  more  afraid  of  lawyers  than  you 
are." 

Roger  stared  in  silent  astonishment.  '  You  are 
a  queer  one,"  he  ejaculated  finally. 

The  injured  man  smiled,  a  little  sadly. 

"  You're  awfully  young  to  be  so  suspicious  of 
your  fellow  man,"  he  said  almost  to  himself.  Then, 
more  briskly  and  cheerfully,  he  addressed  himself 
to  the  very  surprised  and  humiliated  Roger. 

"  Now  that  we've  got  that  settled,  let's  tackle 
the  next  question.  When  are  you  going  to  ship 
me  into  town?  " 

;'  We're  not  going  to  ship  you  in,"  answered 
Roger,  very  chastened. 

Good  lifted  his  eyebrows.  "Not  going  to? 
What's  the  answer?  " 

"  My  sister  intends  to  have  you  stay  where  you 


AN  UNINVITED  GUEST  29 

are."  Then  he  added  in  a  more  friendly  tone, 
"  It's  the  least  we  can  do  for  you,  you  know." 

"Well,  well!  "  Good's  face  was  illumined  with 
smiles.  "  I  say,  that's  fine,"  he  cried.  "  Most 
extraordinary,  too,"  he  added,  under  his  breath. 
Then  he  surveyed  the  neatness  and  harmonious 
quiet  of  the  room.  His  eyes,  with  a  little  gleam  in 
in  them,  roamed  comfortably  into  every  corner. 
"  It's  worth  being  laid  up  to  get  a  taste  of  this," 
he  cried  naively.  "  You  see,  I've  never  seen  any- 
thing just  like  this,"  he  added,  almost  apologetically, 
with  the  little  deprecatory  lift  of  his  hands  that 
had  already  fastened  itself  upon  Roger  as  charac- 
teristic. "  It's  too  good  to  be  true !  " 

For  a  moment  Roger  was  silent  at  this  display 
of  ingenuousness.  Then  he  spoke  as  he  would 
have  expected  to  be  spoken  to,  had  their  positions 
been  reversed. 

"  I'll  send  in  for  your  clothes  —  and  things  — 
if  you'll  give  me  your  address.  .  .  ." 

The  tall  man's  expression  of  content  faded.  It 
was  succeeded  by  a  look  of  what  might  be  taken  for 
pain,  or  embarrassment, —  or  both. 

"They're  all  here,"  he  said  quietly.  "It 
wouldn't  be  worth  while  to  send  after  a  tooth- 
brush and  a  comb,  would  it.  That's  all  there  is  — 
home." 

"  Oh  —  I  beg  your  pardon,"   said  Roger,  red- 


30  THIRTY 

dening.     Then  he  cursed  himself  for  the  tactless- 
ness of  the  apology. 

"  Nothing  to  blush  at,  my  boy,"  cried  Good. 
"  Lend  me  a  suit  of  pajamas,  instead." 

Roger  rose  hastily.  He  welcomed  the  oppor- 
tunity to  escape  from  this  curious  creature,  who  said 
such  curious  things,  and  who  possessed  but  one  suit 
of  clothes.  As  very  rarely  happened,  he  found  him- 
self at  a  loss  for  words. 

"  Can  I  do  anything  else?"  he  asked  from  the 
doorway. 

"Yes  —  you  can  thank  your  sister  —  from  the 
bottom  of  my  heart  —  for  having  introduced  me  to 
her  motor-car  .  .  .  and  this  — "  he  waved  his  hand 
around  comprehensively,  and  smiled. 

"Anything  else?  " 

"  Well,  you  might  call  up  The  World  and  tell 
them  that  I  won't  be  down  to-morrow.  You  might 
add  that  I  fell  down  on  the  Wynrod  story  .  .  . 
that  I'm  in  the  camps  of  the  Persians." 

Then,  when  Roger  looked  puzzled,  he  yawned  lux- 
uriously and  stretched  his  arms  over  his  head.  And 
after  another  yawn,  he  closed  his  eyes. 

"  That's  all,  thanks.  Tell  'em  not  to  wake  me  — 
for  a  week.  .  .  ." 


CHAPTER  II 

A  BLOW  —  AND  A  RESOLUTION 


IT  was  after  ten  o'clock  on  the  evening  of  the  same 
day.  Judith  was  thankful  when  a  change  at  one  of 
the  tables  gave  her  an  opportunity  to  steal  away. 
It  was  the  same  old  routine,  the  same  intermin- 
able bridge,  the  same  familiar  group,  even  includ- 
ing Faxon  and  Delia  Baker  who,  by  a  coincidence 
that  had  called  forth  little  veiled  ironies,  had  returned 
by  the  same  late  afternoon  train.  Judith  wondered 
at  herself.  The  life  she  led,  the  people  she  called 
her  friends,  had  never  seemed  quite  so  shallow  be- 
fore. She  stole  upstairs  and  listened  for  a  moment 
at  the  door  of  her  patient's  room.  All  was  quite 
soundless.  Returning  to  the  floor  below,  she 
stepped  out  into  the  grateful  coolness  of  the  evening, 
seeking  that  part  of  the  piazza  at  the  opposite  end 
of  the  house  from  the  parlours.  Pausing  outside 
the  smoking-room,  she  heard  voices  and  the  tinkle 
of  ice.  She  looked  through  the  glass  door;  there 
were  two  men  in  the  room,  Delia  Baker's  husband 
and  Faxon.  The  latter  was  stirring  his  high-ball 

31 


32  THIRTY 

thoughtfully.  His  words  arrested  her  as  she  was 
on  the  point  of  turning  back. 

"  If  Roger  keeps  on  at  his  present  gait  he'll 
make  a  neat  little  hole  even  in  the  Wynrod  pile." 

Baker  lighted  a  fresh  cigar.  "  Yes?  "  His  tone 
was  noncommittal. 

"  Got  any  for  himself,  d'ye  think  —  or  does 
Judith  hold  the  bag?  "  Such  imprudent  garrulity 
was  not  characteristic  of  Faxon,  but  more  whisky 
than  was  good  for  him  had  dulled  discretion  and 
loosened  his  tongue. 

"  It's  hard  to  say."  Baker  leaned  back  and  blew 
smoke  rings  toward  the  ceiling.  He  was  an  ex- 
traordinarily taciturn  man,  even  for  a  lawyer. 

"  The  old  man  had  a  lot  of  confidence  in 
her."  Faxon  gave  the  impression  of  soliloquy. 
"  Shouldn't  wonder  if  she  kept  the  kid  on  an  allow- 
ance. He's  strapped  pretty  tight  sometimes. 
Queer  girl,  Judith." 

"Think  so?" 

1  Yes.  Sometimes  I  don't  just  know  how  to  take 
her." 

"So?" 

"  Charming,  fine  character  and  all  that  —  but 
difficult.  Don't  you  think  so?" 

"Urn  — well  .  .  ." 

"  Roger's  different." 

"Is  he?" 


A  BLOW  — AND  A  RESOLUTION       33 

"  Oh,  my,  yes.  I  don't  mean  when  he's  carrying 
a  package  —  I  want  to  dodge  then  —  but  when  he's 
sober,  he's  a  nice  kid.  Awfully  young  and  simple, 
of  course.  Still  .  .  ." 

"  Alarums  without  —  and  enter  the  king!  "  came 
a  thick  voice  from  the  doorway,  a  voice  that  arrested 
Judith  a  second  time  and  held  her  spellbound.  She 
was  already  tingling  with  mortification.  How  dared 
her  friends  calmly  analyse  her  and  Roger  in  their 
own  house,  speculate  on  their  private  money  mat- 
ters, condescendingly,  almost  sneeringly  foot  up 
their  account  of  good  and  bad?  Then,  even  in  the 
dark,  she  felt  her  cheeks  grow  hot.  Was  she  herself 
much  better  than  they,  playing  the  eavesdropper  on 
her  own  guests?  Somehow,  oddly,  the  thought 
flashed  upon  her  that  the  quiet  man  upstairs  would 
not  have  done  so,  that  his  code  of  ethics  was  a  cleaner 
one  than  hers  and  that  of  her  friends.  But  when 
she  heard  her  brother's  voice,  with  that  telltale 
thickening  in  it,  sheer  dread  of  what  he  might  do 
banished  all  thought  of  social  niceties.  Roger  was 
not  often  like  this,  but  when  he  was  it  meant  trouble. 

"  Hello,  Roger."  Faxon's  manner  underwent  a 
subtle  change.  "  Thought  you  were  playin'  bridge 
with  the  crowd." 

"Bridge?  Me?  Not  on  your  life!  I've  cut 
that  out.  I'm  sick  of  givin'  the  whole  party,  I  am. 
I'm  sick  of  bein'  a  Christmas-tree  for  blind  babies. 


34  THIRTY 

Put  your  ban's  in  my  pockets,  boys.  Ev'body's 
doin'  it!  No,  sir,  I've  quit  f  good.  Where's  the 
Scotch?" 

"  Really,  Roger,"  protested  Baker  somewhat 
anxiously,  "  don't  you  think  you'd  better  .  .  ." 

44  Jus'  one  toast,"  insisted  Roger  obstinately, 
"  jus'  one."  He  drew  himself  unsteadily  erect. 
44 1  wanta  drink  —  I  wanta  drink  —  to  the  mos' 
beautiful,  mos'  'ttractive,  mos'  heartless  .  .  ."  As 
he  raised  the  glass  with  a  flourish,  it  slipped  from  his 
fingers  and  crashed  on  the  table,  its  golden  contents 
trickling  over  Baker's  knees. 

There  was  momentary  silence ;  then  a  single  short 
laugh.  It  sobered  Wynrod  like  a  dash  of  cold 
water.  "  You  think  I'm  funny?"  he  demanded. 

Faxon  reddened.  4'  Oh,  come  now,  Roger,  why 
so  peevish?  You've  got  things  to  be  thankful 
about.  I  hear  that  Vera  is  leaving  you,  without  even 
the  threat  of  a  breach  of  promise  suit  — " 

The  blood  surged  up  into  Roger's  cheeks  and  his 
features  sharpened.  When  he  finally  spoke  it  was 
very  slowly. 

44  I'll  thank  you  to  keep  your  mouth  shut  on  mat- 
ters that  don't  concern  you,"  he  said  icily. 

Faxon's  eyes  gleamed  angrily,  and  his  lips  parted; 
but  he  did  not  e^eak.  He  passed  his  hand  across 
his  mouth  and  laughed  nervously. 


A  BLOW  — AND  A  RESOLUTION       35 

Baker  put  his  hand  on  the  younger  man's  shoulder. 
"  Let's  see  how  the  cards  are  going,  Roger  .  .  ." 

But  Wynrod  shook  him  off.  "  Would  you  mind 
beating  it,  John  —  just  a  moment.  I  want  to  talk 
to  Faxon  —  there's  a  good  fellow  — " 

Baker  surveyed  the  pair  —  and  hesitated.  Then, 
with  a  cold  and  meaning  glance  at  Faxon,  he 
shrugged  his  shoulders  and  went  out. 

When  the  curtains  had  closed,  Wynrod  turned  to 
Faxon.  He  drew  in  his  breath  and  his  teeth  clicked 
sharply. 

"  I  may  run  the  risk  of  breach  of  promise  suits," 
he  said,  after  a  long  pause,  "  but  I  stay  away  from 
married  women." 

'  Well,  that's  noble  of  you  to  be  sure,  but  —  what 
of  it?" 

"  You  don't." 

Faxon's  features  tightened.  "  I'm  afraid  I  don't 
understand  .  .  ." 

'  That's  a  lie,"  said  Wynrod  in  an  ugly,  deliberate 
way. 

"  Now  see  here  .  .  ."  Faxon  tried  to  bluster, 
but  it  was  patently  forced. 

"  Either  you  or  the  Bakers  have  got  to  get  out  of 
this  house."  The  words  were  said  quietly  enough, 
but  the  determination  behind  them  was  plain. 
Faxon  realised  that,  and  tried  equivocation. 


36  THIRTY 

"Why?" 

"  Because  I  won't  have  this  sort  of  thing  going 
on  in  my  house." 

"Your  house?"  There  was  just  the  faintest 
suggestion  of  an  emphasis  upon  the  pronoun. 

"  My  house,"  repeated  Roger  coldly.  "  I  saw 
you  and  Delia  last  night.  And  I  know  you  met 
in  town  to-day.  If  she  wants  to  make  that  kind 
of  an  ass  of  herself  outside,  that's  her  business.  But 
she  can't  do  it  here.  John  Baker's  my  friend." 

For  an  instant  Faxon's  jaw  was  set  with  curled 
lips,  and  his  eyes  blazed.  Then  the  whole  expres- 
sion changed,  and  he  shrugged  his  shoulders  and 
laughed  —  though  not  very  easily. 

"  Why,  Roger  old  boy,  you're  all  wrong. 
You're  quite  mistaken  about  Delia  Baker.  She  and 
I  are  good  friends  —  nothing  more.  She's  an  un- 
happy little  woman,  that's  all.  She  —  oh  well, 
she's  taken  my  friendship  for  something  more. 
She  .  .  ." 

"  Let's  not  discuss  her." 

"  As  you  like.  But  you've  got  to  get  things 
straight.  Just  because  I  was  decent  to  her  when  her 
husband  wasn't,  and  she  fancied  me  in  love  with  her, 
doesn't  make  me  the  sort  of  chap  you  seem  to  think 
me,  does  it?  " 

Roger  was  silent.  Faxon  assumed  that  the  si- 
lence meant  an  acceptance  of  his  explanation,  and 


A  BLOW  — AND  A  RESOLUTION       37 

his  apparent  success  made  him  careless.  His  voice 
softened  and  his  manner  became  almost  feline.  He 
put  his  hand  on  the  other's  shoulder. 

"  You've  got  it  all  dead  wrong,  my  boy.  Delia's 
spoiled  the  party  for  me.  She's  stuck  to  me  like  a 
barnacle.  I  didn't  come  out  here  for  her.  I 
wanted  to  see  Judith.  Why  .  .  ." 

Roger  seemed  suddenly  to  grow  a  head  taller. 
His  eyes  flamed  like  banked  fires,  and  his  nostrils 
dilated.  His  fists  clenched  fiercely.  "  Cut  that  — 
cut  it,  I  tell  you,"  he  ground  thickly  through  his  set 
teeth.  "  Don't  you  ever  speak  of  my  sister  like 
that.  By  God,  I  won't  stand  it,  you  hear."  His 
voice  was  low  but  clear  and  vibrant  with  suppressed 
passion. 

Faxon  recoiled,  and  his  suavity  left  him.  '  Your 
sister  is  of  age,  I  believe,"  he  said  with  a  steely  even- 
ness. "  She  needs  no  protector." 

'  You  keep  away,  I  tell  you.  You  keep  away." 
Roger's  breath  came  shortly,  and  his  fists  clenched 
and  unclenched  themselves  spasmodically. 

"  If  I'm  not  good  enough  to  look  at  your  sister, 
how  about  you  —  and  Molly  Wolcott?  I  can't 
see  that  little  Vera's  any  better  than  Delia  Baker." 

"  Cut  it,  Faxon.     You're  going  too  far!  " 

u  Is  that  so?  "  sneered  the  older  man  harshly. 
;'  Well,  what  if  I  go  farther.  I  won't  take  much 
nonsense  from  you,  my  cock." 


38  THIRTY 

'  You'll  get  out  of  this  house  and  stay  out  .  .  ." 
Roger's  eyes  were  ablaze  and  his  features  worked 
convulsively.  The  other,  much  larger  of  frame, 
glared  down  at  him  with  a  gaze  as  hot  as  his  own. 
The  atmosphere  was  tense. 

Then,  almost  simultaneously  the  curtains  parted 
and  the  two  sections  of  the  piazza  window  swung 
inward.  Baker  who  had  left  the  two  men  very  re- 
luctantly, and  had  returned  as  soon  as  he  decently 
could,  was  present  at  the  climax.  He  jumped  for- 
ward as  he  saw  the  two  men  facing  each  other  over 
the  narrow  table,  and  comprehended  the  situation. 
But  he  was  too  late.  He  caught  an  ugly  word  from 
Wynrod.  Then,  with  a  savage  oath,  Faxon's  arm 
shot  out. 

There  was  the  dull  crunch  of  flesh  against  flesh, 
and  the  younger  man  staggered  back  from  the  im- 
pact; then  blind  with  rage,  he  sprang  forward  again; 
a  crash  of  shattered  glass  followed,  as  the  mis-aimed 
whisky  bottle  splintered  against  the  sideboard. 
Then,  simultaneously  the  three  men  became  aware 
of  Judith  standing  white  and  statuesque  in  the  win- 
dow, her  eyes  ablaze  with  scorn  and  repulsion. 

Of  what  was  said  she  had  no  clear  memory  after- 
wards. Roger,  belligerent  still,  attempted  a  hot 
defence,  but  she  silenced  him  with  a  cutting  word. 
Faxon  for  the  first  time  on  record,  found  his  suavity 
forsake  him.  He  had  been  caught  by  his  hostess 


A  BLOW  — AND  A  RESOLUTION       39 

in  a  disorderly  broil,  and  his  dapperness  was  marred 
with  spattered  liquor.  His  rhetoric  quite  broke 
down  and  he  was  conscious  of  making  the  most  awk- 
ward exit  of  his  career. 

It  was  fully  an  hour  later,  when  the  house  was 
quiet  for  the  night,  that  Judith  found  Roger  nursing 
a  slight  but  smarting  cut  on  his  cheek,  where  Faxon's 
seal  ring  had  grazed  it. 

"  Roger,"  she  said,  "  that's  enough  '  first  aid,' 
isn't  it?  I  want  to  talk  with  you." 

"  Oh,  cut  it  out,  Judith.  Go  to  bed.  I've  had  all 
a  fellow  can  stand  for  one  evening,  without  being 
lectured  by  you!  " 

"  It  can't  wait,  Roger.  I  have  some  things  that 
I  must  say  to  you  now,  to-night,  and  you  have  got 
to  listen.  I  couldn't  sleep  if  I  didn't.  I  have 
waited  too  long  already.  If  I  hadn't,  this  wretched, 
vulgar  thing  wouldn't  have  happened.  .  .  .  And 
with  one  of  your  own  guests,  too." 

He  straightened  at  that  and  lost  his  sheepish 
look.  "  One  of  my  guests?  Not  by  a  million!  I 
wouldn't  have  that  damned  bounder  in  my  kennels. 
Why,  hang  it  all,  Judith,  I  can't  see  what  you  have 
the  chap  around  for  at  all.  He  .  .  ." 

"  You  know  perfectly  well  why  I  have  him.  He's 
here  so  that  Delia  Baker  can  have  a  good  time  — 
poor  girl." 


40  THIRTY 

"Poor  girl!  Rats!  Just  because  her  husband 
doesn't  play  tag  with  her  all  day,  she's  '  poor  girl.' 
Instead  of  behaving  like  a  halfway  decent  sort,  she's 
making  several  different  kinds  of  a  fool  of  herself 
over  Joe  Faxon.  'Poor  girl?' — don't  make  me 
laugh!" 

"  Oh,  I  heard  what  you  said  to  Mr.  Faxon.  But 
it  doesn't  follow,  Roger,  just  because  you  have  a 
nasty  mind  that  everybody  is  as  horrid  as  you  choose 
to  think.  Maybe  there  are  some  sides  of  a  man's 
life  that  I'm  not  supposed  to  know  about.  But  just 
escaping  a  breach  of  promise  suit, —  oh,  Roger, 
shame  on  you !  " 

For  a  moment  the  young  man  lost  some  of  his  as- 
surance. "  You  aren't  fair,"  he  protested  aggriev- 
edly.  "  You're  bound  to  put  me  in  the  wrong  every 
time.  Admitted  that  I  have  made  all  sorts  of  a  fool 
of  myself, —  a  fellow  has  to  learn  somehow,  hasn't 
he?  But  you'll  believe  the  worst  of  me  any  time, 
and  you  won't  believe  anything  against  your  precious 
friends.  You're  biased,  that's  what  you  are, 
biased." 

Judith  sighed  and  took  a  cigarette  from  the  table 
and  lighted  it.  She  smoked  thoughtfully  for  a  mo- 
ment. 

"  Roger,  I'm  sure  I  don't  know  what  to  do  with 
you.  It's  just  one  scrape  after  another.  It  won't  be 
long  before  this  one  will  be  out.  But  I  don't  mean 


A  BLOW  — AND  A  RESOLUTION       41 

to  be  unfair.  If  as  you  say,  you  have  been  all  kinds 
of  a  fool,  it  isn't  any  more  your  fault  than  it  is  mine. 
I  had  no  right  to  make  it  possible  for  you  to  be  all 
kinds  of  a  fool.  And  as  a  matter  of  fact,  you  are 
not  a  bit  ashamed  of  yourself,  Roger.  On  the  con- 
trary, you're  altogether  too  satisfied  with  yourself." 

Her  brother  smiled  uneasily.  "  I  don't  know  that 
I'm  really  in  need  of  condolence,"  he  rejoined  with 
an  attempt  at  sarcasm. 

"  That's  just  the  trouble,"  she  said  earnestly. 
'  You've  been  feeling  altogether  too  well  —  with 
altogether  too  little  reason."  She  tossed  her  ciga- 
rette in  the  fireplace,  and  then  turned  and  faced  him 
with  lips  compressed.  "  I  overheard  some  people 
discussing  you  the  other  night,  Roger.  One  called 
you  '  no  account,'  the  other,  '  a  bad  egg,'  and  both 
agreed  that  the  cause  was  '  too  much  money.'  ' 

His  eyes  flashed.  "Who  were  they?"  he  de- 
manded belligerently. 

'  That  makes  no  difference." 

"Why  doesn't  it?" 

"  Because  what  they  said  is  true." 

Roger  was  silent  at  that,  but  Judith  went  on  re- 
lentlessly. 

'  You  are  no  account,  Roger.  By  the  standards 
of  men  who  do  things  in  the  world,  you're  good  for 
nothing.  You're  a  good  dancer.  You  can  drive 
a  motor  car.  You  know  enough  about  horses  to 


42  THIRTY 

play  polo.  And  when  you  put  your  mind  to  it,  you 
play  a  good  game  of  cards.  Beyond  that,  what  can 
you  do  —  what  are  you?  " 

He  eyed  her  narrowly,  and  a  faint  flush  rose  in 
his  cheeks. 

"  What  do  you  want  me  to  do  —  give  a  catalogue 
of  virtues?  "  he  inquired  sarcastically.  "  What's  all 
this  leading  to,  anyway.  Granted  that  I'm  all  kinds 
of  a  waster,  what's  the  answer?  " 

Judith  was  thoughtfully  silent  for  a  little  while 
after  his  question,  and  when  she  spoke  it  was  to 
answer  it  with  another  question. 

"  Have  you  ever  done  a  single  stroke  of  useful 
work  in  your  life?  " 

"  Probably  not."     His  tone  was  a  little  flippant. 

"Why  not?" 

"  Never  had  to."  The  flippancy  was  quite  ob- 
vious. 

u  No,  you  never  had  to  —  never  had  to  do  any- 
thing." There  was  another  long  silence,  broken 
only  by  the  nervous  drumming  of  Roger's  finger-tips 
on  the  edge  of  his  chair.  When  Judith  spoke  again, 
her  tone  was  tender,  but  with  a  vibrant  note  of  de- 
termination which  communicated  itself  fully  even  to 
her  brother's  apathetic  faculties. 

14  Well,  from  now  on,  you're  going  to  play  the 
man.  You're  going  to  take  care  of  yourself. 
You're  going  to  have  to  do  things." 


A  BLOW  — AND  A  RESOLUTION       43 

"What  do  you  mean?"  All  Roger's  flippancy 
had  vanished,  and  in  its  place  was  an  almost  comic 
anxiety. 

"  Just  what  I  said,  Roger  lad.  I  shall  support 
you  no  longer." 

"  You  mean  .  .  .  you're  going  to  stop  my  allow- 
ance?" He  was  aghast  at  the  possibility,  and  he 
made  no  effort  to  conceal  his  feelings.  "  Surely 
you  can't  be  thinking  of  anything  so  —  so  —  out- 
rageous?" he  demanded. 

"  But  I  am!  "  She  tossed  her  head  with  a  sug- 
gestion of  defiance,  and  smiled.  "  You've  done  as 
you  pleased  for  all  your  twenty-four  years.  Well, 
you  can  go  on  doing  as  you  please  —  only  you'll  do 
it  on  your  own  money." 

"  But  this  money  —  my  allowance  —  it  isn't  yours, 
you  know,"  he  expostulated,  almost  tearfully.  "  It's 
merely  an  idiotic  will  that  gives  you  the  disposal  of 
it.  What  right  have  you  got  to  get  on  your  high 
horse  and  tell  me  what  I  must  and  mustn't  do? 
Answer  me  that." 

"  No  right,  Roger,"  she  said  sadly.  "  Half  of 
what  we  have  is  yours  of  course.  But  it's  not  yours 
till  you're  thirty  —  you  know  that.  I  couldn't  give 
it  to  you  now  even  if  I  wanted  to.  I'm  not  even 
obliged  to  give  you  an  allowance.  The  two  thou- 
sand, of  course,  you'll  continue  to  get.  I  can't  con- 
trol that.  But  beyond  .  .  ." 


44  THIRTY 

"  Two  thousand!  What  good  will  that  do  me? 
Do  you  think  I  can  live  on  that?  " 

"  Some  people  do,"  she  murmured  faintly. 
Judith  was  not  without  a  certain  quiet  irony  when 
she  chose  to  employ  it. 

"  Don't  be  silly,  Judith.  You  know  mighty  well 
I  can't  get  along  on  that.  Why,  good  heavens,  I 
can't  possibly  do  it!  "  His  voice  rose  shrilly  as  the 
enormity  of  the  thought  struck  him  with  all  its  force. 
But  Judith  refused  to  be  troubled. 

"  Perhaps  you'll  know  more  about  it  after  you've 
tried,"  she  said  gently. 

Roger  jumped  to  his  feet  and  paced  rapidly  to 
and  fro  for  a  moment.  Then  he  faced  his  sister, 
and  his  eyes  blazed  like  those  of  an  angry  cat. 

"  Do  you  really  mean  that  you're  going  to  play 
this  rotten  trick  on  me  ?  "  he  demanded  hotly.  "  Are 
you  going  to  take  advantage  of  a  perfectly  insane 
will  and  cheat  me  out  of  what's  honestly  mine?  Or 
are  you  kidding  me?  If  you  are,  I've  had  about 
enough  of  it." 

"  I  mean  every  word,"  she  returned,  with  not  a 
little  asperity.  "  And  I'm  not  cheating  you. 
You've  made  a  mess  of  your  life,  left  to  yourself. 
Now  I'm  going  to  help  you.  I'm  tired  of  suffering 
for  your  sins !  "  Suddenly  the  quality  of  her  voice 
changed  completely  and  her  eyes  glistened  sugges- 


A  BLOW  — AND  A  RESOLUTION       45 

tively.  u  Oh,  Roger  lad,  can't  you  understand? 
Can't  you  see  that  I  do  so  want  you  to  make  some- 
thing of  yourself?  You're  the  only  thing  I  have 
in  the  world.  Can't  you  see  how  it  hurts  me  to 
have  people  feel  a  contempt  for  you?  I'm  the  only 
mother  you've  ever  had.  I  know  I  haven't  done  a 
millionth  part  of  what  I  should  have  done  for  you. 
I've  failed  —  miserably.  I  know  that.  All  your 
weaknesses  are  due  to  me.  You  aren't  to  blame. 
This  is  my  last  chance.  You're  slipping,  Roger  — 
slipping  down.  This  is  my  last  chance  to  catch  you 
—  before  —  before  .  .  .  it's  too  late.  Judge  Wol- 
cott  agrees:  I  talked  It  over  with  him.  Oh,  I'm 
sorry,  lad.  You  haven't  an  idea  how  sorry!  It 
breaks  my  heart  to  be  cruel  to  you  this  way  —  but 
I've  got  to  be,  Roger.  I've  got  to  be  —  can't  you 
understand?  Please  say  you  do."  She  put  her 
arms  around  his  neck  and  laid  her  cheek  against 
his.  But  he  shook  her  off  roughly. 

'  That's  all  very  fine  talk,"  he  snapped  savagely, 
"  but  it  doesn't  mean  anything.  Who  the  devil  is 
old  Wolcott  to  worry  about  my  morals  ...  ?  " 

"  As  Molly's  father  he  .  .  ." 

"  Molly  can  take  care  of  herself.  But  that  isn't 
the  point.  What  I  want  to  know  is  where  Wolcott 
gets  the  right  to  monkey  with  my  affairs.  And  as 
for  you  —  if  you're  going  to  cheat  me  out  of  what's 


46  THIRTY 

mine  —  for  the  love  of  heaven,  do  it,  but  don't  make 
it  worse  with  all  this  high  and  mighty  talk.  It 
makes  me  tired." 

"  Please,  Roger  .  .  ."  The  tears  in  her  eyes 
were  plain  now. 

"  Maybe  I  am  all  the  pleasant  things  you  say  I 
am.  Maybe  I  haven't  got  sense  enough  to  take  care 
of  my  own  money.  But  what  are  you?  I  never 
noticed  any  wings  on  your  shoulders." 

"  You  don't  understand.     I  ..." 

"  Understand?  Of  course  I  don't  understand. 
That's  why  I'm  asking  the  question.  If  I'm  what 
you  say  I  am  —  what  are  you  ?  Where'd  you  get 
your  preaching  card?  " 

"  What  difference  does  it  make  what  I  am?  " 

"  It  makes  a  lot  of  difference.  If  you're  so  hot 
on  reforming  me,  why  don't  you  take  a  crack  at  your- 
self? I  don't  see  that  you're  so  almighty  angelic. 
What  have  you  ever  done  in  the  world?  You  can 
play  the  piano  after  a  fashion  and  sing,  and  talk  a 
little  French,  and  play  cards  and  smoke  cigarettes 
and  drink  cocktails  and  .  .  .  well,  what  else  can 
you  do?  You  spend  twice  as  much  money  as  I  do, 
and  I'll  be  hanged  if  I  can  see  that  you  spend  it  to 
much  better  advantage.  If  I'm  a  waster  and  no  ac- 
count and  a  bad  egg,  you're  one  too.  The  only  dif- 
ference is  that  you  wear  skirts  and  I  don't.  Well 
—  why  don't  you  answer  me?" 


A  BLOW  — AND  A  RESOLUTION       47 

He  towered  over  her,  white  with  his  rising  rage. 

"  I  say,  why  don't  you  answer  me?  "  he  repeated 
hotly. 

"  You  don't  need  to  be  rude,"  she  answered,  her 
voice  trembling. 

"  I'm  not  rude.  I'm  simply  putting  the  same 
question  to  you  that  you  put  to  me.  You  held  the 
mirror  up  to  me.  You  can't  squeal  if  I  do  the  same 
by  you.  You  wanted  to  know  what  I  had  ahead, 
what  I  thought  about  things,  where  I  stood,  and  all 
that.  Well,  what  do  you  think  about  things? 
Where  do  you  stand?  What  are  you?  Turn 
about's  fair,  isn't  it?  " 

Judith  sought  shelter  in  dignity.  She  raised  her 
head  coldly.  "  I  think  there  is  nothing  more  to  be 
said.  I  think  you  had  better  go  to  bed." 

"No,"  he  sneered  bitterly;  "there  isn't  anything 
more.  You're  dealing  the  cards.  But  it's  a 
darned  rotten  deal,  just  the  same.  If  you've  got  a 
clear  conscience  you've  got  a  devil  of  a  lot  more  than 
I'd  have  if  I  was  in  your  shoes." 

With  which  bit  of  self-depreciation  Roger  stalked 
dignifiedly,  if  a  trifle  unsteadily,  out  of  the  room. 

Judith  remained  as  he  left  her,  with  her  chin  in 
her  hand,  staring  into  the  empty  fireplace.  Once 
or  twice  she  brought  her  handkerchief  to  her  eyes. 
Her  brother's  angry  words  had  stung  her  far  more 
cruelly  than  she  was  willing  to  admit.  His  counter 


48  THIRTY 

arraignment  of  her  had  struck  home.  What  was 
she,  what  did  she  think  about  things?  In  her  zeal 
for  him,  had  she  not  overlooked  herself? 

She  cast  her  eyes  around  the  room,  reeking  with 
the  sweet  sickliness  of  dead  cigarettes.  She  thought 
of  the  high  stakes  that  had  passed  at  her  tables,  she 
saw  again  the  wan,  tired,  hard  faces  of  the  players, 
their  feverish,  greedy  fingers;  and  she  heard,  as  in 
an  echo,  their  blithe  cruelties,  their  empty  blandish- 
ments. And  these  people,  she  reflected  bitterly, 
were  her  friends  —  the  only  ones  she  had. 

Roger  had  put  the  question  to  her  squarely. 
What  was  she?  The  words  struck  her  like  a  blow 
in  the  face.  And  what  did  she  think  —  about  any- 
thing? And  the  weight  of  the  question  was  none  the 
lighter  for  being  asked  for  the  second  time  in  the 
same  day.  Roger  the  immature  boy  over  whom  she 
had  allowed  herself  to  stand  in  judgment,  and  Brent 
Good,  the  pitiful  vagabond,  had  both  weighed  her 
in  the  balance  and  found  her  wanting. 

She  shuddered  at  the  arid  uselessness  of  what  she 
called  her  mind.  The  grotesque  procession  of  her 
daily  thoughts  passed  before  her  in  review.  She 
tried  to  close  her  eyes  and  shut  the  ghastly  picture 
out,  but  could  not. 

Riches,  health,  intelligence  of  a  sort  —  these 
things  were  hers.  What  had  she  done  with  them? 
The  answer  hurt,  almost  physically.  Emptiness, 


A  BLOW  — AND  A  RESOLUTION       49 

idleness,  futility  .  .  .  was  there  anything  else  in 
herself,  her  friends,  her  whole  life?  Had  she  justi- 
fied existence? 

Suddenly  she  realised  that  it  was  cold.  She  shiv- 
ered, and  turned  out  the  light. 

II 

Roger  awoke  the  following  morning  in  a  re- 
pentant mood.  Slowly  and  painfully  he  marshalled 
the  facts  of  the  preceding  evening,  dim  and  hazy 
some  of  them,  while  others  stood  out  with  humiliat- 
ing and  alarming  distinctness.  And  the  more  he 
analysed  them,  the  more  unpleasantly  he  became 
aware  that  Judith  had  been  in  deadly  earnest.  In 
his  first  hopelessness,  he  caught  illogically  at  one 
faint  chance.  His  sister's  great  fear  seemed  to  be 
that  this  latest  escapade  might  leak  out.  The  fight 
had  been  the  starting  point  of  all  her  amazing  change 
of  front.  Well,  he  could  prevent  it  from  leaking 
out,  by  swallowing  his  pride.  Perhaps  after  all 
he  had  been  over-hasty. 

Accordingly,  acting  on  this  new  resolution,  Roger 
caught  Faxon's  eye  as  they  were  rising  from  table, 
and  nodded. 

The  latter  waited.  Roger  reddened  slightly,  and 
was  silent  until  the  others  were  out  of  earshot. 
Then  he  held  out  his  hand. 

"  I'm   sorry,   Joe,"   he   said  manfully.     "  I'm   a 


50  THIRTY 

damn  fool  when  I've  got  a  load.  I  hope  you'll  for- 
get anything  I  may  have  said  or  done." 

Faxon  took  the  extended  hand  a  little  surprisedly. 

"  Surest  thing  you  know,  Roger.  And  I'm  sorry 
too.  I  struck  at  a  sober  man  —  you  understand, 
don't  you?  I  was  too  hasty.  One  forgets.  He 
hears  things  —  and  acts  before  he  thinks.  Bad 
business  —  but  it's  over  and  we'll  bury  it." 

"  That's  particularly  what  I  want,"  said  Wynrod, 
with  what  seemed  to  Faxon  rather  unnecessary 
earnestness.  "  Absolutely  buried.  I  don't  want  it 
to  get  out  at  all.  I  can  depend  upon  Baker  .  .  ." 

"  And  you  can  depend  upon  me,"  said  Faxon 
heartily.  "  I  won't  breathe  a  whisper." 

"  Thanks."  They  shook  hands  gravely,  and 
after  an  embarrassed  little  pause,  Roger  excused 
himself  and  went  to  hunt  up  his  sister. 

"  About  that  stuff  last  night  —  are  you  still  in 
earnest?  "  he  asked  doggedly,  but  not  unpleasantly. 

She  looked  at  him  with  a  curiously  tender  expres- 
sion in  her  eyes,  but  with  her  jaw  firmly  set. 

"  Absolutely,  Roger,"  she  said  quietly. 

But  the  outburst  she  expected  did  not  come.  In- 
stead, he  looked  at  her  quizzically  and  smiled. 

"  Well,  sister,  maybe  there's  something  in  what 
you  say.  I've  been  thinking  about  it.  But  you've 
set  me  up  against  an  almighty  hard  proposition. 
I'm  willing  —  but  what  on  earth  can  I  do?  " 


A  BLOW  — AND  A  RESOLUTION       51 

Judith  was  tremendously  surprised,  although 
she  should  not  have  been,  knowing  her  brother's 
customary  acquiescence  in  whatever  she  dictated. 
But  she  concealed  her  amazement  and  answered  him 
in  as  matter-of-fact  a  way  as  she  could  muster.  And 
Judith  was  by  no  means  an  inferior  actress. 

"  Why  don't  you  see  Judge  Wolcott?  " 

"  He's  a  lawyer." 

"  I  know.  But  he's  interested  in  all  sorts  of  busi- 
ness matters.  And  before  he  went  on  the  bench 
he  was  a  corporation  lawyer.  At  least  he  could 
tell  you  who  to  see." 

"  The  idea  is  not  without  merit,  sister.  I  think 
I'll  see  the  Judge  on  Monday.  And  then  watch 
little  Roger  proceed  to  climb  the  dizzy  heights  of 
industry.  I'll  show  you  a  thing  or  two  about  him 
you  never  guessed." 

Judith's  eyes  filled  with  tears  and  she  threw  her 
arms  about  his  neck.  "Oh,  Roger  —  you're  fine. 
And  I  am  cruel  to  you.  I  haven't  any  business  to 
treat  you  this  way.  You're  so  much  bigger  than  I 
am.  You'll  make  a  success  —  a  great  success.  I 
know  you  will.  And  I  will  be  so  proud  of  you !  " 

The  possibility  was  a  novel  one.  Roger  consid- 
ered it  carefully,  for  a  moment.  "  By  Jove,  you 
will !  "  he  cried  finally.  "  I'll  be  hanged  if  you  won't," 
he  added  with  enthusiasm.  He  wondered  why  the 
tears  seemed  to  well  the  faster  in  his  sister's  eyes. 


CHAPTER  III 

"  YOU  DON'T  KNOW  MR.  IMRIE  " 

THE  news  of  Judith's  "  mad  whim  "  spread  rapidly 
through  Braeburn,  and  various  were  the  comments 
it  evoked.  For  the  most  part  they  savoured  of  con- 
dolence, although  there  was  some  sentimental  ap- 
probation for  what  was  characterised  by  one  enthu- 
siast as  the  "  nobility  "  of  her  course.  This  had  its 
effect  upon  Roger,  and  in  time,  he  also  came  to  feel 
admiration  for  her,  and  then,  as  a  natural  consequence 
of  his  own  participation  in  the  affair,  he  came  to 
feel  an  admiration  for  himself.  From  out  and  out 
hostility  to  the  idea,  therefore,  he  changed  insen- 
sibly to  ardent  and  voluble  sympathy. 

At  first  Judith  had  admitted  to  herself  quite 
frankly  that  the  situation  bore  possibilities  of  an- 
noyance. Aside  from  her  guest's  potentially  dan- 
gerous familiarity  with  her  daily  life,  she  sensed  in 
him  a  certain  lack  of  knowledge  —  or  at  least  of 
observance  —  of  those  social  amenities  upon  which 
her  training,  more  than  her  instinct,  let  her  to  place 
considerable  emphasis.  It  was  with  this  feeling  of 
an  unbridgeable  gulf  between  them,  that  she  ap- 
proached their  first  meeting  after  the  accident.  And 

52 


"YOU  DON'T  KNOW  MR.  IMRIE  "       53 

it  was  with  no  little  embarrassment,  therefore,  that 
she  entered  his  room. 

The  lines  of  pain  had  disappeared  from  his  face, 
and  the  removal  of  the  stubble  which  had  covered 
his  chin  when  they  had  had  their  first  encounter, 
together  with  his  rest,  and  —  though  she  did  not 
suspect  that  —  several  meals  much  more  bounteous 
than  those  to  which  he  was  accustomed,  had  im- 
proved his  appearance  surprisingly.  He  greeted 
her  unaffectedly. 

"  Hello,"  he  said.  "  I've  been  waiting  to  see 
you.  I  can't  begin  to  tell  you  how  grateful  I  am 
for  — all  this." 

"  And  I,"  she  cried,  "  can't  begin  to  tell  you  how 
sorry  I  am  that  it  all  happened.  I  ..." 

"  Well,  then,"  he  said  with  a  smile  which  revealed 
two  rows  of  strong,  even  and  very  white  teeth,  "  let's 
not  either  of  us  try." 

That  seemed  to  break  the  ice,  and  because  he  ap- 
peared to  feel  no  embarrassment,  she  found  that 
hers  had  quite  left  her.  Before  she  realised  it,  the 
morning  was  well  advanced,  and  when  she  left  him 
it  was  with  a  curious  feeling  that  they  had  known 
each  other  for  years  and  years  .  .  .  very  well. 

And  that  was  only  the  beginning  of  the  very  odd, 
but  very  real,  friendship  which  sprang  up  between 
them.  It  would  have  surprised  —  perhaps  shocked 
—  her  friends  to  know  how  much  time  she  spent 


54  THIRTY 

with  him ;  but  it  would  have  shocked  them  still  more 
to  know  the  topics  of  the  conversations  between 
them.  She  herself  was  amazed  every  time  she  left 
him;  not  at  the  range  and  depth  of  his  interests  and 
his  knowledge  —  but  at  her  own.  He  seemed  to 
evoke  ideas  and  words  that  she  had  never  dreamed 
were  there.  It  struck  her  as  little  short  of  sorcery. 

But  the  situation  was  not  wholly  pleasant.  There 
were  little  rifts  to  mar  the  lute.  The  first  came 
after  several  weeks.  It  was  Roger  who  introduced 
it. 

"  Say,  Judith,"  he  said  suddenly,  one  night  at  din- 
ner, "  Good's  going  to  be  up  and  around  pretty  soon. 
You  can't  keep  him  cooped  up  there  forever,  you 
know.  When  are  you  going  to  have  him  down  to 
meals?" 

He  voiced  a  question  which  had  been  occurring 
with  troublesome  frequency  in  her  own  mind.  She 
was  silent  for  a  moment,  as  she  struggled  with  a  de- 
cision she  could  no  longer  evade.  It  was  a  curious 
predicament  in  which  events  had  placed  her  —  not 
easy  to  understand  readily.  It  was  indisputable  that 
Good  was  ignorant  of  either  the  theory  or  practice 
of  those  conventions  of  the  table  upon  which,  against 
her  will,  she  set  much  store.  It  was  equally  certain 
that  he  was  quite  conscious  of  his  deficiencies  in  that 
respect.  Were  she  in  his  place,  she  told  herself, 
she  would  prefer  not  to  suffer  the  embarrassments 


"  YOU  DON'T  KNOW  MR.  IMRIE  "       55 

which  the  contrasts  between  themselves  and  him  must 
entail.  But  on  the  other  hand,  did  she  not  per- 
haps over-emphasise  his  sensitiveness,  and  was  it  not 
more  than  probable  that  to  his  sense  of  proportion 
her  conception  of  the  manner  of  human  intercourse 
was  absurd,  if  not  pitiful?  She  found  herself  in  a 
situation  where,  in  an  effort  to  be  kind,  she  might 
be  cruel.  And  what  was  to  her  merely  tact,  might 
be  to  him  pure  snobbishness.  That  settled  the  prob- 
lem. She  could  not  risk  even  the  appearance  of 
pettiness.  The  decision  made  her  realise,  as  noth- 
ing else  had,  how  much  his  judgments  had  come  to 
mean  to  her. 

"You're  right,  Roger,"  she  said  finally;  "we'll 
have  him  down  to-morrow." 

Roger  looked  at  her  quizzically. 

"Where?"  he  asked. 

"Where?"     She  affected  bewilderment. 

"Yes.     Here  ...  or  alone  .  .  .  or  .  .  .?" 

She  struggled  momentarily. 

'  Why,  here  —  of  course  —  with  us,"  she  said 
firmly.  Then  very  quickly,  and  with  finality,  she 
changed  the  subject.  It  was  a  trifling  incident;  but 
had  she  settled  all  later  problems  as  she  settled  that 
one,  the  course  of  her  life  would  have  been  changed 
completely. 

These  were  agreeable  days,   on  the  whole,   for 
Judith  and  her  guest,  but  not  for  Roger.     Pursuant 


56  THIRTY 

to  his  sister's  ultimatum  and  his  own  high  resolution 
taken  thereon,  he  had  fared  forth,  paladin-like,  to 
conquer  that  mysterious  world  wherein  men  bought 
and  sold  all  manner  of  things,  not  excluding  them- 
selves. But  it  had  proven  anything  but  the  high 
road  to  glory  that  he  had  secretly  anticipated;  he 
shivered  lances  daily  with  an  intangible  enemy  which 
neither  showed  its  face  nor  gave  its  name,  but  be- 
fore which  he  seemed  quite  powerless. 

He  had  gone  first,  as  he  said  he  would,  to  Judge 
Wolcott,  and  had,  with  perhaps  less  humility  than 
he  himself  thought  he  was  displaying,  but  with  more 
than  might  naturally  have  been  expected,  announced 
his  readiness  to  consider  any  satisfactory  (empha- 
sised) "  position  "  to  which  he  might  be  directed. 

To  his  resentment,  not  to  say  surprise,  the  Judge 
had  first  laughed  unrestrainedly.  But  on  realising 
the  offence  he  was  giving,  which  Roger  was  at  no 
pains  to  conceal,  he  had  become  quite  serious,  and 
had  directed  the  young  man  to  a  number  of  gentle- 
men, whose  names  he  wrote  out  on  a  bit  of  card- 
board. 

These  gentlemen,  however,  had  proved  to  have 
their  habitat  behind  corps  of  more  or  less  imperti- 
nent menials.  It  had  required  very  explicit  an- 
swers to  what  he  considered  a  great  number  of  en- 
tirely unnecessary  questions  before  he  earned  even 
the  privilege  of  having  his  card  presented. 


'YOU  DON'T  KNOW  MR.  IMRIE  "       57 

Once  in  the  inner  sancta,  however,  he  had  been 
treated  most  courteously,  the  objects  of  his  calls  be- 
ing impressed  with  the  name  of  Wynrod  no  less  than 
with  that  of  Wolcott.  But  after  the  exchange  of 
sundry  pleasantries  and  compliments,  he  had  invaria- 
bly been  shunted,  though  with  exquisite  tact  and  deli- 
cacy, on  to  someone  else. 

He  had  found  this  process  of  education  in  the 
ways  of  the  business  world  excessively  tiresome; 
but  there  was  in  his  character  a  powerful,  if  incon- 
spicuous, vein  of  obstinacy,  and  he  stuck  grimly  to 
the  task  in  hand.  But  he  was  nothing  if  not  human, 
and  his  constant  failure  gradually  wore  down  his 
courage.  To  advance  slowly  would  be  hard  enough, 
he  told  himself;  but  not  to  move  at  all  was  altogether 
disheartening. 

The  natural  consequence  of  it  all  was  that  he  went 
into  town  later  and  later,  and  came  out  earlier  and 
earlier.  There  even  came  days  when  he  did  not  go 
in  at  all. 

And  the  consequence  of  that  was  that  he  saw  more 
and  more  of  Good,  with  the  result  that  he  fell  under 
the  stranger's  spell  even  more  completely  than  his 
sister  had. 

In  that  fact,  curiously  enough,  Judith  found  some- 
thing to  reconcile  her  with  the  lad's  failure  to  con- 
summate the  task  she  had  set  for  him.  He  might 
spend  his  time  with  worse  men,  she  told  herself,  than 


58  THIRTY 

with  Brent  Good.  But  she  saw  to  it  that  the  latter's 
hours  were  not  wholly  spent  with  Roger. 

As  the  stranger  grew  in  strength,  she  procured 
him  a  pair  of  crutches,  and  with  their  aid,  and  that 
of  the  motor-car,  they  were  able  to  take  little  jaunts 
off  into  the  surrounding  country-side.  On  these 
trips  it  almost  brought  the  tears  to  her  eyes  to  per- 
ceive the  exquisite  pleasure  the  sight  and  the  smell 
of  growing  things  seemed  to  give  him. 

"  I've  never  known  anyone  who  enjoyed  the 
country  as  much  as  you  do,"  she  said  one  day,  after 
he  had  waxed  particularly  enthusiastic  over  a  view 
from  one  of  the  near-by  hills. 

"  I've  never  seen  anything  but  city,"  he  answered. 
Then  he  added  very  simply:  "  I  was  pretty  nearly 
a  man  before  I  saw  my  first  cow."  His  brow 
clouded  reminiscently,  and  although  she  ached  to 
draw  him  out  on  his  past,  his  evident  unwillingness 
to  speak  of  it  further  made  her  hesitate. 

Only  once  did  he  make  any  other  reference  to  his 
childhood.  She  had  been  saying  how  difficult  it  was 
to  make  people  spell  her  name  correctly. 

"  You  don't  have  any  difficulty  there,"  she  added. 

"  Not  much,"  he  admitted.  "  Queer  name,  isn't 
it,"  he  said  after  a  pause.  "  Queer  the  way  I  got 
it,  too.  Like  to  hear  about  that?  " 

She  smiled  at  the  innocence  of  the  query,  but 
forced  herself  merely  to  nod  her  head. 


"  YOU  DON'T  KNOW  MR.  IMRIE  "       59 

He  smiled,  and  a  curious  expression  of  tenderness 
came  into  his  eyes. 

"  You  see,  I  was  born  without  a  name.  That  is, 
I  never  had  any  parents  —  or  never  knew  who  they 
were,  which  amounts  to  the  same  thing.  I  was  just 
one  of  those  nameless  little  scraps  of  a  city's  flotsam 
that  get  found  on  people's  doorsteps  every  now  and 
then.  That  is,  I  think  I  was.  I  guess  I  was  about 
five  when  I  began  to  be  conscious  of  self.  As  far 
back  as  I  can  remember,  I  was  selling  chewing  gum 
and  getting  food  by  begging  from  restaurants  at 
night  and  sleeping  in  doorways  and  packing-boxes. 
Then  I  sold  newspapers,  and  got  prosperous,  and 
when  I  was  about  ten  —  I  guess  it  was  ten  —  you 
see,  I  don't  really  know  even  how  old  I  am  —  I  got 
into  the  hands,  somehow  or  other,  of  an  old  Jew 
rags-old-iron  man."  He  was  silent  for  a  moment, 
and  the  expression  of  tenderness  spread  over  his 
whole  face.  "  He  was  a  good  sort  —  that  old  kike. 
He  fed  me  as  well  as  he  could  —  which  wasn't  very 
well  —  and  taught  me  to  write  and  figure  and  read 
—  good  books  too.  I  knew  the  Public  Library  bet- 
ter than  you  know  your  own  house.  He  didn't  just 
make  me  read  books  —  he  made  me  like  them. 
He'd  come  from  Russia  where  he  couldn't  get  them, 
and  he  knew  what  books  were.  What  your  Church 
and  brother  and  friends  and  home  are  to  you,  books 
were  to  old  Zbysko.  He  taught  me  to  love  them, 


60  THIRTY 

too.  He  did  lots  of  things  for  me  when  doing 
things  wasn't  easy.  And  he  gave  me  the  only  name 
I  ever  had." 

'  Your  name?  I  don't  understand." 
'  Yes,  the  old  chap  was  a  great  believer  in  patent 
medicines.  He  honestly  thought  the  men  who  made 
them  were  philanthropists.  He  gave  me  the  name 
of  one  of  them."  He  laughed  reminiscently.  "  I 
suppose  I  have  one  of  the  best  known  names  in  the 
world !  I  see  it  everywhere." 

"  And  the  old  man  ...   ?  " 

"  They  didn't  call  it  starvation  —  doctors  never 
do  name  things  right.  I  think  I  was  about  thirteen 
then.  They  tried  to  send  me  to  an  institution,  but 
I  ran  away.  I've  shifted  for  myself  since." 

He  lapsed  into  silence,  and  Judith  could  get  no 
more  out  of  him  that  day.  He  was  too  obviously 
busy  with  his  memories. 

One  Sunday  morning,  about  a  month  or  so  after 
the  accident,  Judith  was  struck  by  a  whimsical  idea. 
She  broached  it  to  her  guest  immediately. 

"  Mr.  Good,"  she  said  at  breakfast,  "  I  have  a 
favour  to  ask  of  you  .  .  ." 

"  It's  granted  already,"  he  said  gallantly. 

"  Wait  —  it  may  not  prove  so  easy.  I  know  you 
don't  care  for  church-going,  but  I  want  you  to  go 
with  me  —  this  morning." 


"YOU  DON'T  KNOW  MR.  IMRIE  "       61 

He  looked  dejected.  "I  should  be  delighted  — 
honestly.  But  look — "  He  indicated  his  old 
brown  suit,  which  in  spite  of  the  constant  and  earnest 
endeavours  of  Roger's  valet,  still  looked  indisputa- 
bly shabby. 

"  No  matter.  We'll  go  late  and  sit  in  the  back 
and  nobody  will  see  us.  But  here's  the  real  favour. 
There's  to  be  a  clergyman  out  from  the  city,  this 
morning,  who  is  a  friend  of  mine.  Arnold  Imrie  is 
to  preach,  and  .  .  ." 

"Is  Arnold  coming?"  broke  in  Roger.  "By 
George,  I'll  go  myself.  He's  a  wonder." 

"  That's  what  I  wanted  to  find  out,"  said  Judith. 
'  That  is,  I  want  to  find  out  if  you  think  so,  Mr. 
Good.  The  people  here  think  just  that.  I  want  to 
get  your  opinion." 

"That's  hardly  fair,  is  it,  Miss  Wynrod?  He's 
a  personal  friend  of  yours,  and  you  know  already 
what  I  think  of  church  —  yet  you  want  my  opinion 
of  both." 

"  No  —  not  both;  just  the  man." 

Good  shook  his  head.  "  I  doubt  if  they  can  be 
separated,"  he  said  dubiously. 

"  Well,  we'll  worry  about  that  later.  It's  settled 
that  you'll  come?  " 

"Of  course,  but—" 

"  Thank  you.     I'll  be  ready  in  a  minute." 


62  THIRTY 

All  the  way  to  the  church  Good  protested  that  she 
was  taking  an  unfair  advantage  of  him.  But  Judith 
refused  to  heed  his  protests. 

They  paused  for  a  moment  on  the  low  rise  over- 
looking the  church,  to  survey  it.  Judith  was  very 
fond  of  its  weathered  grey  stones,  almost  buried  in 
the  luxuriant  ivy.  She  had  been  christened  and  con- 
firmed in  it,  and  the  stained  glass  windows  at  oppo- 
site ends  of  the  transept  —  masterpieces  they  were, 
too  —  were  gifts  of  hers,  in  memory  of  her  long- 
dead  father  and  mother.  It  was  an  exquisite  little 
edifice,  a  genuine  bit  of  Tudor,  without  a  particle  of 
"  adaptation,"  looking  as  if  it  had  been  transplanted 
bodily  from  some  English  vale,  together  with  the 
soil  upon  which  it  stood,  and  the  well  trimmed  trees 
which  surrounded  it.  She  felt  a  little  catch  in  her 
throat,  as  the  memories  clustered  before  her. 

"Pretty,  isn't  it?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Good  slowly.     "  It's  pretty  .  .  ." 

She  did  not  like  the  hesitant  qualification  implied 
in  his  tone. 

"  Is  there  a  reservation?  " 

"  Well," —  he  cocked  his  head  on  one  side,  and 
knitted  his  brows.  "  Yes.  It's  too  beautiful.  It's 
beauty  in  the  wrong  place.  The  people  out  here 
have  beauty  enough  without  it.  I'd  like  it  better 
if  it  was  in  the  city  —  in  the  heart  of  the  city — . 
with  its  trees  and  its  vines  and  its  grass.  It's  needed 


"  YOU  DON'T  KNOW  MR.  IMRIE  '        63 

more  there."  Then  he  laughed.  "  Oh,  Miss  Wyn- 
rod,  you  must  be  careful  what  you  ask  me.  I'm  a 
queer  fellow.  Most  of  the  things  you  think  are 
all  right,  I  think  are  all  wrong.  You'd  have  to 
have  lived  my  life  to  see  things  the  way  I  see  them." 

She  was  vaguely  disappointed  and  hurt,  and  she 
made  no  attempt  to  reply.  Every  now  and  then 
he  did  bewilder  her  by  flights  of  thought  which  she 
found  herself  incapable  of  following.  Usually  she 
tried  to  argue,  but  the  little  church  was  too  intimate 
a  thing  for  that.  She  said  nothing,  and  silently  they 
went  on  into  it. 

She  had  timed  their  arrival  carefully  so  as  to  get 
there  just  before  the  sermon,  and  unobtrusively  they 
slipped  into  one  of  the  side  pews  in  the  rear.  But 
the  building  was  so  small  that  they  had  a  very  good 
view  of  the  Reverend  Arnold  Imrie,  sometime  stroke 
of  the  Yale  crew,  Fellow  of  Oxford,  and  one  of  the 
strongest  heads  that  ever  succumbed  to  a  Heidel- 
berg kneipe. 

He  was  a  well-built,  good-looking  young  man, 
with  close  cropped  curly  blonde  hair,  and  a  clear 
skin  and  eyes.  His  complexion  was  ruddy,  but 
bronzed,  as  if  he  were  still  not  unused  to  out-of- 
doors.  Yet  there  were  two  lines  between  his  eyes, 
and  a  stoop  to  his  shoulders  that  seemed  to  betoken 
an  equal  familiarity  with  the  study.  Indeed  his 
whole  manner  and  appearance  gave  the  same  para- 


64  THIRTY 

doxical  impression.  It  seemed  to  Good,  as  he 
studied  him,  that  Doctor  Imrie  was  the  product  of 
a  victory  of  the  mind  over  the  body.  He  was  the 
conscious  ascetic,  triumphing  over  the  instinctive  sen- 
sualist. It  was  not  hard  to  imagine  that  the  clergy- 
man was  very  fond  of  the  good  things  of  the  world, 
however  much  he  might  neglect  them  in  favour  of 
the  things  of  the  spirit. 

And  in  that  estimate  he  was  substantially  correct. 
Imrie  had  gone  into  the  ministry,  not  really  from 
choice,  but  from  a  painfully  acute  sense  of  duty  in- 
herited from  his  Knoxian  forbears.  Contradicting 
an  abounding  vitality  was  an  overwhelming  con- 
sciousness of  sin,  based,  it  must  be  confessed,  on  a 
fair  modicum  of  actuality,  impelling  him,  irresisti- 
bly, toward  a  fear  and  a  hatred  of  the  flesh.  Some 
men  enter  the  Church  positively,  out  of  love  for 
their  God  and  their  fellow  men:  but  Imrie  had  en- 
tered it  negatively,  from  a  fear  and  a  distrust  of  the 
devil  in  himself.  Of  his  fellow  men,  in  the  mass, 
at  least,  he  never  thought  at  all. 

All  these  things  Good  sensed  very  clearly.  But, 
he  thought  to  himself,  Imrie  was  a  young  man,  whose 
life  had  progressed  in  one  channel  .  .  .  and  there 
were  a  great  many  channels  in  the  world.  If  any- 
thing should  ever  occur  to  move  him  from  his  chan- 
nel, a  great  many  things  might  happen.  There  were 


"  YOU  DON'T  KNOW  MR.  IMRIE  "       65 

more  Imries  than  the  congregation,  gazing  respect- 
fully with  tranquil  eyes,  saw. 

It  was  quite  characteristic  of  Imrie's  neglect  for 
the  human  equation  in  life,  that  he  should  choose  for 
his  text  that  morning,  the  Evils  of  Idleness  —  when 
fully  two-thirds  of  his  auditors  represented  the  very 
apotheosis  of  idleness.  But  it  was  equally  explana- 
tory of  his  popularity  among  them.  He  had  the 
faculty,  wholly  unconscious  though  it  was,  of  being 
able  to  castigate  them  eloquently  for  their  sins,  but 
in  such  an  abstract  and  impersonal  fashion  as  to  leave 
them  quite  untroubled  at  its  close. 

His  words,  now,  uttered  with  unquestioned  sin- 
cerity, were  hot  and  forceful,  his  logic  clear,  his 
conclusions  inescapable.  He  spoke  eloquently,  his 
manner  was  impressive,  and  his  delivery  beyond  criti- 
cism. His  hearers  gave  him  their  closest  attention. 
Many  of  them  heard  so  well  that  later  they  would 
recall  graphic  bits,  to  quote,  and  to  use  as  explana- 
tion of  their  admiration  of  him.  But  not  a  brow 
clouded.  Not  a  soul  was  pained.  He  never  per- 
turbed his  congregation.  Judge  Wolcott  expressed 
its  feelings  when  he  said,  "  I  like  to  hear  Arnold 
preach  because  it  brightens  the  day  for  me."  Imrie 
was  hardly  a  Savonarola. 

They  had  had  disagreeable  preachers  at  Brae- 
burn,  once  or  twice.  One  was  a  particular  disap- 


66  THIRTY 

pointment.  He  was  a  missionary  bishop  from 
somewhere  in  Africa,  and  the  renown  of  his  ex- 
ploits had  filled  every  seat.  But  he  proved  to  be 
an  unattractive  little  man,  with  a  falsetto  voice  and 
shabby  clothes,  who  not  only  spoke  very  badly,  but 
who  said  some  very  unnecessary  and  unpleasant 
things.  Arnold  Imrie  was  different.  He  spoke 
their  language,  and  they  understood  him.  He  was 
one  of  them.  He  had  grown  up  in  their  midst. 
Many  of  them  called  him  by  his  first  name.  He  was 
perhaps  a  trifle  too  serious  to  people  who  found  life 
rather  more  amusing  than  otherwise,  but  on  the 
whole  they  thought  him  more  than  satisfactory.  He 
was  a  gentleman.  He  was  good.  He  was  sincere. 
He  was  orthodox.  He  never  failed  to  point  out 
the  error  of  their  ways  —  but  he  never  failed  to  do 
it  with  subtlety.  And  in  a  day  when  so  many  clergy- 
men were  allowing  themselves  to  wander  into  un- 
desirable, if  not  absolutely  forbidden  fields,  he  stuck 
to  religion,  where  he  belonged.  And  he  was  not 
only  delightful  in  the  pulpit,  but  one  could  ask  him 
to  dine,  with  perfect  confidence  in  the  result.  As 
Good  listened  he  turned  to  survey  the  congregation. 
There  was  unqualified  approval  on  every  face.  He 
listened  for  a  moment  or  two  longer.  Then  he 
smiled  faintly,  as  one  might  at  a  play  he  has  seen 
several  times,  and  fell  to  counting  the  ticking  of  his 


"  YOU  DON'T  KNOW  MR.  IMRIE  "       67 

watch,  wondering  how  much  longer  the  sermon 
would  last. 

Nor  was  his  impatience  lost  on  Judith. 

But  Imrie  never  preached  long  sermons.  In  a 
very  few  minutes  he  had  wound  up  with  his  usual 
stirring  peroration,  and  left  the  pulpit.  Good  had 
an  almost  irresistible  impulse  to  clap,  not  as  express- 
ing approbation,  but  admiration  for  a  difficult  task 
well  done.  He  smiled  —  not  wholly  pleasantly  — 
at  the  look  of  devout  complacency  on  the  faces  of 
all  the  well  dressed  men  and  women  about  him. 
Not  one,  he  reflected,  who  had  listened  so  attentively 
to  this  stirring  denunciation  of  idleness,  knew  what 
real  toil  was  —  or  had  any  desire  to  know.  He 
wanted  to  rush  to  the  pulpit  himself  —  and  tell  them 
what  it  was.  But  he  followed  Judith  out  quietly 
enough. 

She  had  planned  their  exit  so  as  to  be  well  in  ad- 
vance of  the  crowd,  but  she  could  not  miss  them  all. 
She  was  irritated  at  the  curious  glances  flung  at  her 
and  her  companion,  though  she  tried  not  to  notice 
them.  It  was  only  when  a  bow  was  quite  unavoida- 
ble that  she  acknowledged  it.  She  was  angry  with 
herself  for  her  self-consciousness.  But  when  she 
glanced  at  her  companion,  with  his  spotted,  weather- 
beaten,  shapeless  suit,  and  his  antiquated,  sun-burned 
hat,  not  to  speak  of  his  lean  and  angular  figure ;  and 


68  THIRTY 

then  at  her  own  trim  presence,  she  had  to  smile. 
They  did  present  a  curious  spectacle,  and  the  covert 
smiles  were  justified.  Still  —  she  was  honest  enough 
to  admit  it  —  it  would  please  her  more  to  see  Good 
somewhat  better  dressed.  It  did  not  occur  to  her 
that  it  would  please  him  too. 

They  walked  along  slowly  for  a  little  while,  in 
silence.  Good  was  the  first  to  speak. 

"  The  inside  was  beautiful,  too.  That  carved 
oak  was  fine.  Just  enough  carving.  Not  too  much. 
Usually  there  is.  And  the  windows  —  the  sunlight 
filtering  in  through  that  one  on  the  left  was  like  the 
organ  when  the  vox  humana  pedal  is  on  —  all  shim- 
mering. It  was  very  beautiful.  So  restful.  All 
churches  should  be  like  that.  The  Catholics  have 
the  right  idea.  It  .  .  ." 

"And  the  sermon?"  she  broke  in  quizzically. 

He  stopped  short  and  looked  at  her  narrowly. 
Her  faint  smile  was  not  lost  on  him. 

"Now,  Miss  Wynrod  —  that  isn't  fair,"  he  ex- 
postulated. "  I  told  you  not  to  do  that.  Really  .  . ." 

"  But  that's  what  I  brought  you  for,"  she  said. 
"  Of  course  you  like  the  church.  Anyone  would. 
But  I  want  to  know  about  the  rest  of  it.  You  prom- 
ised, you  know." 

He  studied  her  thoughtfully.  "Well,"  he  said 
finally,  "  let's  wait  till  we  get  to  that  bosky  dell  up 
there.  Then  we  can  sit  down  and  have  it  out." 


"YOU  DON'T  KNOW  MR.  IMRIE  "       69 

When  they  were  seated,  Good  fell  to  toying  with 
a  stick,  and  making  little  circles  in  the  sand.  She 
waited  patiently  for  him  to  begin.  Finally  he  raised 
his  head  and  looked  at  her  half  timorously  from 
under  his  bushy  eyebrows. 

"  You  won't  be  angry  or  disgusted  if  I  tell  you 
what's  on  my  mind?  "  he  inquired. 

"  Have  I  ever  been?  " 

"  No  —  you've  been  quite  remarkable  in  that  re- 
spect," he  admitted.  "  But  this  is  different." 

"  Go  on  —  don't  excuse  yourself  any  more." 

"  Well,  his  text  .  .  .  they  nearly  lynched  a  priest 
out  in  Colorado  for  that.  You  see,  he  was  preach- 
ing to  strikers,  and  when  he  told  them  that  idleness 
was  the  root  of  all  evil  .  .  .  you  couldn't  hardly 
blame  them,  now  could  you?  " 

She  laughed  at  that.  "  But  there  aren't  any 
strikers  here,"  she  persisted. 

"  No,  but  to  talk  about  idleness  is  almost  as  point- 
less here  as  there.  Why  didn't  he  say  something 
that  would  get  under  their  hides?  Look  at  them 
coming  up  the  street.  Do  they  look  as  if  they  had 
been  filled  with  a  fear  of  the  Lord?" 

"  Do  you  think  people  go  to  church  to  be  fright- 
ened?" 

"  I'm  sure  I  don't  know  why  they  go,"  he  said 
cheerfully.  "  I  never  could.  I'd  rather  do  almost 
anything.  Church-going  always  irritates  me.  The 


7o  THIRTY 

preachers  are  so  spineless  —  like  this  Mr.  Imrie. 
He  had  a  good  theme.  But  he  didn't  carry  it  out. 
Maybe  he  didn't  know  how.  Maybe  he  didn't 
dare  .  .  ." 

"  You  don't  know  Mr.  Imrie,"  she  said.  "  He'd 
dare  —  anything." 

"  All  right.  But  that  doesn't  change  what  would 
happen  if  he  did  dare,  or  did  know.  I've  read  the 
Bible  quite  a  bit.  Suppose  Jesus  came  back  and  got 
up  in  the  pulpit  and  lit  into  his  congregation  the  way 
he  lit  into  the  money  changers  — '  vipers  '  and  all 
that?  Why,  the  vestry  would  have  his  scalp  before 
the  sun  set,  wouldn't  they?  " 

"  You  seem  to  be  rather  hostile  to  religion,  Mr. 
Good,"  said  Judith,  vaguely  offended. 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders  in  a  manner  indicative 
of  helpless  annoyance. 

"  Oh,  Miss  Wynrod  —  I  didn't  expect  that  of  you. 
That's  what  they  all  say.  Roast  the  established 
Church  and  they  call  you  an  atheist  or  worse.  I'm 
not  opposed  to  religion  —  why  should  I  be?  I  can't 
say  I  dislike  the  air  I  breathe,  can  I  ?  But  I  haven't 
much  use  for  an  organisation  that  doesn't  live  up 
to  its  confession  of  faith.  Here  are  your  Christian 
Churches,  founded  on  a  rebellion  against  hypocrisy 
and  privilege  and  materialism,  deliberately  encour- 
aging complacency  and  selfishness  and  peace  and 
quiet  and  oh  —  everything  that  its  founder  got  cm- 


"YOU  DON'T  KNOW  MR.  IMRIE  "       71 

cified  for.  I've  come  to  know  Jesus  pretty  well.  I 
like  him.  He's  the  kind  of  leader  men  want  to  fol- 
low. If  he  was  alive  to-day  I'd  be  one  of  his  lesser 
disciples.  And  I'll  bet  a  dollar  that  all  your  elo- 
quent, dogmatic,  spiritual,  irrelevant  Imries  would 
be  running  to  the  local  Pilate  to  have  us  jugged !  " 

"  What  makes  you  think  you  know  Jesus  better 
than  —  our  Imries?  "  she  asked  softly. 

"  I  don't,"  he  answered  earnestly.  "  Knowing 
people  is  a  subjective  affair.  I  know  you  as  one  per- 
son. Your  brother  knows  you  as  another.  You 
may  know  yourself  as  very  different  from  either  of 
the  two.  It's  the  same  way  with  Jesus.  We  both 
made  his  acquaintance  in  the  same  way,  so  we  are 
both  entitled  to  our  opinion.  But  look  here.  You 
think  Imrie's  nearer  to  Jesus  than  I  am,  don't  you?  " 

"  Why,  really,  I  ..."  she  stammered  and 
coloured  slightly. 

"  Of  course  you  do.  Well,  I  ask  you  this.  Do 
you  honestly  think  that  Imrie's  Jesus  —  the  Jesus  he 
serves  up  to  you  on  Sundays, —  the  cold,  logical, 
snobbish  abstraction  —  would  ever  have  gotten  any- 
body so  sore  that  they'd  crucify  him  ?  Of  course  you 
don't.  Well  what  do  you  think  that  congregation 
would  do  to  me  if  I  got  up  in  the  pulpit  and  gave  my 
Jesus  —  the  fiery,  human,  uninspired,  blood-red  revo- 
lutionary that  I  conceive  him  to  be  ?  You  know  with- 
out my  telling  you.  Why,  they'd  have  me  arrested 


72  THIRTY 

if  I  used  his  own  thoughts  expressed  in  modern  lan- 
guage—  yes,  if  I  used  his  actual  words  —  and  ap- 
plied them.  Suppose  Imrie  took  that  stuff  about  the 
millstone,  and  applied  it  to  Corey's  cash  girls  and 
delivery  boys.  Do  you  think  the  old  man  would  be 
anxious  to  hear  Imrie  again?  " 

"  You  seem  to  have  thought  a  great  deal  about 
Jesus,"  said  Judith,  with  a  faintly  veiled  sarcasm. 
But  he  did  not  sense  that. 

"  Yes,"  he  said  naively.     "  Haven't  you  ?  " 

She  was  silent  at  the  unconscious  rebuke,  pro- 
foundly stirred  by  the  paradoxically  of  the  situation. 
She  wanted  to  answer  him  in  the  affirmative,  wanted 
to  very,  very  much.  But  she  knew  that  she  could 
not.  Jesus  was  not  the  living,  breathing  companion 
of  every  day  that  he  seemed  to  be  to  this  irreverent 
infidel.  He  was  far  more  sacred  to  her,  but  far  less 
a  vital  factor  in  the  commonplaces  of  existence.  She 
was  honest  enough  to  admit  it.  But  he  appeared  not 
to  notice  her  tacit  confession. 

"  You  see,"  he  went  on  patiently,  as  if  expounding 
a  very  simple  problem  to  a  rather  young  and  stupid 
child,  "  your  stained-glass  faith  isn't  founded  on 
Jesus  at  all.  You're  a  Paulist.  Like  him,  you're  a 
Roman  citizen,  an  aristocrat,  a  mystic.  Jesus  wasn't 
any  of  those  things.  He  was  the  next  thing  to  a 
slave,  a  man  of  the  common  people,  and  for  all  pur- 
poses of  comparison,  a  thorough-going  materialist. 


"  YOU  DON'T  KNOW  MR.  IMRIE  "       73 

He  had  no  dogma  to  preach,  other  than  that  the  king- 
dom of  the  earth  should  belong  to  the  dwellers 
therein.  But  Paul  was  a  different  sort  of  chap.  He 
changed  the  propaganda  so  that  it  read  '  kingdom  of 
heaven,'  which  was  a  very  different  thing,  and  much 
more  comfortable  for  the  shaking  seats  of  the  mighty. 
Then  the  Greek  philosophers  got  interested  in  that 
strange  abortion  called  Christianity,  added  Eleusinian 
mysteries  and  what  not,  devised  the  doctrine  of  the 
immaculate  conception  to  cover  the  illegitimacy  of 
Jesus,  adapted  the  idea  of  the  trinity  from  Egyptian 
theology  and  .  .  ." 

'  You  must  study  a  great  deal,  too?  "  she  asked, 
breaking  in  on  the  fluent  rush  of  his  words. 

'  Yes,"  he  said,  almost  apologetically;  "  it's  great 
stuff.  I  like  it." 

Again  she  was  silenced  by  the  ingenuousness  of  his 
reply.  She  was  puzzled.  She  had  thought  she 
possessed  a  religion  of  conviction,  but  she  realised,  in 
a  sudden  panic,  that  she  had  not.  She  had  been  born 
to  her  faith  as  she  had  been  born  to  her  wealth  and 
her  position  in  society.  She  did  not  dodge  the  conse- 
quent thought  —  it  could  be  taken  from  her  as  easily 
as  the  other  things.  This  vagabond  before  her  had 
been  born  with  nothing  —  not  even  a  name  —  but 
what  he  had  was  his  own.  His  very  impudence  be- 
fore sacred  matters,  the  freedom  with  which  he  dis- 
regarded the  eminence  of  people  and  ideas,  betokened 


74  THIRTY 

his  superiority  to  her.  She  wanted  to  be  disdainful, 
angry,  displeased  with  him.  She  could  not  be.  She 
was  humbled  before  the  power  of  his  faith,  as  she  had 
never  in  her  life  been  humbled  before  the  faith  of 
Imrie.  Though  Good  did  not  suspect  it,  she  was, 
in  a  way,  at  a  crisis. 

She  was  silent  for  a  little  while.  Then  she  rose 
with  a  smile. 

"  Well,  Mr.  Good,  I'm  not  a  match  for  you  in 
these  matters,  but  Mr.  Imrie  is  coming  to  supper  to- 
night and  you  can  have  it  out  with  him  face  to  face." 

"  I'd  be  glad  to,"  said  Good  as  he  scrambled  to  his 
feet,  very  awkwardly.  "  But  it  wouldn't  be  any  use. 
That's  another  reason  for  my  dislike  of  clergymen. 
You  can't  argue  with  them.  The  major  premise, 
though  it  isn't  expressed  of  course,  when  you  start  off, 
is  that  they  are  right  and  you  are  wrong.  They  are 
trying  to  convince  you  —  always  —  never  to  learn. 
They  can  go  back  to  supernatural  inspiration  and  I 
can't  —  so  the  argument  stops  before  it  starts.  You 
can't  do  much,  you  know,  with  a  man  who's  abso- 
lutely convinced  that  he's  got  a  pipe  line  direct  to 
eternity.  But  I'll  be  polite  to  him.  I'll  try  to  forget 
that  he's  a  parson  and  only  remember  that  he's  your 
friend." 

Judith  smiled  furtively  at  this  magnanimous  offer. 
It  was  so  characteristic  of  the  man.  If  there  was  a 
drop  of  sycophantic  blood  in  his  veins,  he  had  yet  to 


"  YOU  DON'T  KNOW  MR.  IMRIE  "       75- 

reveal  it.  And  it  was  this  sublime  confidence  in  him- 
self which  formed  one  of  his  most  potent  charms  for 
her.  From  birth  she  had  been  waited  upon,  with 
varying  degrees  of  servility,  depending  upon  the  sta- 
tion and  the  hopes  of  those  who  waited.  There  were 
servants.  There  were  young  men,  of  varying  de- 
grees of  attractiveness,  station,  and  impecuniousness, 
who  wanted  to  marry  her.  There  were  beggars,  of 
varying  degrees  of  honesty,  who  wanted  her  to  aid 
them.  There  were  the  proponents  of  various  chari- 
table schemes,  with  varying  degrees  of  sincerity  and 
intelligence,  who  wanted  her  to  sign  the  cheques. 
And  in  addition  to  those  who  merely  wanted  money, 
were  the  great  swarm  of  both  sexes,  who  sought  the 
smile  of  her  social  favour,  who  delighted  to  be  seen 
with  her,  to  have  her  accept  their  attentions,  to  be 
invited  to  her  functions.  There  had  been  very  few 
people  in  her  life  who  were  there  with  a  wholly  dis- 
interested purpose.  And  even  the  individuals  who 
were  disinterested  —  or  whom  she  thought  disin- 
terested—  had  relatives  who  were  not.  In  spite  of 
her  temperament,  the  circumstances  of  her  birth  and 
wealth  had  forced  her  to  surround  herself  with  a 
well-defined  armour  of  suspicion.  In  Good's  lack  of 
reverence,  of  tact,  of  taste,  of  manners,  of  anything 
approaching  the  conventions  which  made  up  her  life, 
she  found  what  she  had  craved.  Of  his  utter  clarity 
of  soul  there  could  be  no  doubt.  She  never  once  even 


76  THIRTY 

suspected  that  he  had  a  thought  which  he  considered 
worth  uttering,  which,  from  motives  of  expediency, 
he  did  not  utter.  She  had  given  him  food  and  lodg- 
ing. He  had  given  her  —  all  he  had  to  give  —  his 
open  heart.  It  was  clear  that  he  thought  they  were 
quits.  And  she  was  glad  that  he  did.  It  was  her 
first  experience  of  such  an  exchange. 

She  smiled  again  as  she  recalled  his  promise  not  to 
enter  into  debate  with  Imrie.  He  would  treat  Imrie 
kindly  —  for  her  sake.  How  Arnold  would  fume  if 
he  knew  of  such  forbearance.  And  if  Good  only 
knew  what  he  was  saying  .  .  .  well,  she  reflected,  he 
would  doubtless  say  it  just  the  same ! 

At  supper,  true  to  his  promise,  Good  was  extremely 
taciturn.  He  appeared  respectfully  interested  in  all 
that  Imrle  had  to  say,  joked  pleasantly  with  Roger, 
was  politely  intimate  with  Judith,  and  to  her  very 
great  astonishment,  even  went  so  far  as  to  tell  several 
very  entertaining  anecdotes  of  his  experiences  in  the 
diamond  mines  of  South  Africa. 

"  Why,"  she  cried,  "  I  never  knew  you  had  been 
there." 

"  No,"  he  said,  with  a  twinkle  in  his  eye  and  a  dry 
little  twist  to  his  lips,  "  I  never  told  you." 

But  after  that  he  relapsed  into  comparative  silence, 
and  shortly  after  the  meal,  excused  himself  rather 
deftly,  though  none  the  less  certainly,  and  went  to  his 
room. 


"  YOU  DON'T  KNOW  MR.  IMRIE  "       77 

Roger,  as  usual,  had  an  engagement  elsewhere,  and 
presently  he,  too,  departed.  Judith  and  Imrie  were 
left  alone. 

"  That  was  a  splendid  sermon,  Arnold,"  she  said, 
with  an  effort  at  enthusiasm,  and  a  subconscious  ques- 
tion as  to  whether  she  really  meant  what  she  said. 

Imrie  was  thoughtful.  "  I  did  my  best.  The 
congregation  seemed  to  like  it.  But  it  could  be  done 
much  better." 

"  So  could  most  things." 

"  Perfection  is  no  trifle,  is  it,"  he  smiled.  "  But 
let's  not  talk  of  such  dreadful  things  as  sermons.  I 
haven't  seen  you  for  ages  .  .  ." 

"  Six  weeks,  to  be  exact,"  she  interrupted. 

"  Exactly !  "  he  thanked  her  with  his  eyes  for  the 
implication,  and  woman-like,  she  took  away  his  pleas- 
ure deliberately. 

'  The  accident  happened  the  day  after  you  left." 

"  Oh."  He  was  silent  for  a  moment.  "  That 
was  a  splendid  thing,  Judith  —  your  taking  that  fel- 
low in.  Just  like  you.  But  hasn't  he  been  some- 
thing of  a  —  well,  a  care?  " 

"  On  the  contrary.     I've  enjoyed  him  intensely." 

"  But  don't  you  find  him  —  a  little  uncouth?  "  he 
persisted. 

'  Yes  —  very.  But  a  little  roughness  is  a  relief 
after  too  much  polish,  isn't  it?  " 

"  Yes,     of    course,"    he    admitted.     "  But    you 


78  THIRTY 

wouldn't  confess  even  if  you  had  been  put  out.  And 
that's  like  you,  too."  He  looked  at  her  with  an  ex- 
pression in  his  eyes,  the  meaning  of  which  there  could 
be  no  doubt. 

"  Let's  go  out  on  the  porch,"  she  said  abruptly. 
"  It's  so  stuffy  in  here." 

The  moon  was  full  and  it  shone  over  a  picture  of 
loveliness.  Below  them,  as  they  sat  on  the  stone 
balustrade  of  the  terrace,  stretched  Judith's  immacu- 
late gardens,  redolent  with  the  soft  perfume  of  sweet 
pea  and  mignonette.  As  the  breeze  faintly  stirred 
the  leaves,  the  shadows  danced  fantastically  on  the 
sod.  Over  in  the  velvet  depths  of  the  sunken  tennis 
courts,  the  fireflies  flashed  their  lanterns  incessantly. 
Somewhere  in  the  distance  a  guitar  sounded  now  and 
again,  and  a  woman's  voice  rose  and  fell  softly.  It 
was  very  peaceful  and  pleasant,  and  Imrie,  thinking 
of  the  hot  city  and  the  morrow,  drew  a  deep  sigh. 
No  power  on  earth  could  prevent  him  from  going 
back  —  but  he  did  not  pretend  to  think  that  he 
wanted  to  go. 

"  Don't  you  ever  wonder  what  those  crickets  are 
saying?"  asked  Judith,  conscious  instinctively  that 
her  companion's  eyes  still  burned  with  the  same  light. 
"  Just  listen  to  them." 

"  I'd  rather  have  you  listen  to  me,"  said  Imrie  in  a 
choking  voice,  as  if  struggling  to  control  himself. 
Suddenly  his  hand  shot  out  and  caught  hers  in  a  grip 


"  YOU  DON'T  KNOW  MR.  IMRIE  "       79 

like  iron.  "  I  want  to  tell  you  how  much  I  love 
you!  "  he  whispered  passionately. 

She  looked  at  him  for  a  long  time  without  replying, 
and  he  could  see  by  the  movement  of  the  shadows  on 
her  face,  that  her  lip  quivered.  Her  eyes  glistened, 
too.  Then,  very  slowly  and  thoughtfully,  she  with- 
drew her  hand. 

"  It  isn't  fair,  it  isn't  fair,"  she  repeated  dully. 
"  You  promised  not  to." 

"  I  know,  I  know  —  but  I  can't  help  it,  my  darling. 
I  love  you  so  much.  Nothing  else  matters.  I  can't 
help  telling  you.  I  looked  for  you  in  church  this 
morning  and  when  I  couldn't  find  you,  it  was  so  hard 
to  go  on.  I  didn't  care,  after  that.  It's  that  way 
always.  With  you  beside  me  —  it  would  be  so  differ- 
ent. Can't  you  .  .  .  don't  you  feel  .  .  .  any  dif- 
ferent?" 

She  shook  her  head  sadly.  It  was  hard  to  refuse 
Imrie  —  a  million  times  harder  than  all  the  rest. 
That  he  loved  her  truly,  there  was  no  doubt  in  her 
mind.  Of  the  others,  she  was  not  so  sure.  But  she 
did  not  love  him,  and  it  hurt  tremendously  to  tell 
him  so.  She  could  not  tell  why.  He  always  begged 
her  to  give  a  reason,  and  she  never  could.  He  was  a 
good  man,  and  an  attractive  man.  There  was 
nothing  lacking.  As  candid  old  Mrs.  Waring  had 
told  her,  "  Don't  be  a  silly,  my  dear.  You  could  not 
possibly  do  better."  She  believed  that,  too.  Imrie 


8o  THIRTY 

was  as  near  her  ideal  as  she  had  ever  ventured  to 
formulate  one.  And  yet  .  .  . 

"  But  I  thought  ...  the  last  time  .  .  ."he  was 
saying.  "  It  seemed  as  if  ...  there  was  more 
hope.  And  now  ...  it  seems  as  if  there  was  less. 
Why,  my  dearest?  Have  you  changed?  What 
have  I  done?  What  haven't  I  done?  You  seem 
further  away  from  me  now  than  ever  .  .  .  won't  you 
ever  come  to  me  ...  is  it  always  to  be  '  the  desire 
of  the  moth  for  the  star '  .  .  .  please  speak  to  me, 
darling  .  .  .  please  .  .  ." 

His  voice  broke  under  the  stress  of  his  emotion. 
Never  had  she  seen  him  so  moved.  She  marvelled 
at  it.  She  had  a  turbulent  wish  to  ask  him  why  he 
never  lost  himself  like  that  in  his  pulpit  —  and  imme- 
diately afterwards  wondered  where  such  an  out- 
rageous, irreverent  thought  could  have  come  from. 
That  was  not  like  her.  But  she  knew  very  well  who 
it  was  like. 

"  Is  there  —  someone  else  ?  " 

The  question  made  her  start  guiltily.  She  was 
glad  that  her  face  was  in  shadow. 

"  Was  there?  "  she  asked  herself.  Then  the  ab- 
surdity of  the  thought  made  her  smile  to  herself. 

"  No,"  she  said  firmly.     "  There  is  no  one  else." 

"Then  perhaps  .  .  .  ?"     His  voice  trailed  off. 

"  Yes,"  she  said  mechanically,  as  one  who  an- 
swered a  question  without  hearing  it,  "  perhaps/' 


It  was  hard  to  refuse  Imrie — a  million  times  harder 
than  all  the  rest 


"YOU  DON'T  KNOW  MR.  IMRIE  "       81 

They  were  silent,  then,  for  a  long  time.  Finally 
Imrie  held  out  his  hand.  His  face,  clear  in  the  moon- 
light, was  drawn  and  seemed  pallid.  He  was  visibly 
affected. 

"  I'm  sorry,  Judith,"  he  said,  with  a  perceptible 
tremor  in  his  voice,  "  but  I  can't  help  it.  Sometime 
—  perhaps  .  .  ." 

"  Yes."  Her  eyes  filled  with  tears  again,  and  she 
dared  not  trust  herself  to  speak.  She  wanted  to 
throw  her  arms  around  his  neck  and  comfort  him. 
But  she  would  do  it  as  she  would  comfort  Roger  — 
and  he  would  know  that.  So  she  held  out  her  hand. 

"  I'm  sorry,  too,  Arnold.  But  let  us  be  the  good 
friends  we  have  always  been,  anyway." 

She  regretted  that,  as  she  saw  him  wince.  It  was 
not  friendship  that  he  wanted.  But  she  forced  her- 
self to  finish  in  that  key.  It  was  safest. 

"  I  hope  the  plans  for  the  new  church  are  getting 
on  famously?  " 

4  Yes,"  he  said  apathetically.  "  It's  doing  very 
well." 

'  You  must  bring  out  the  sketches  and  let  me  see 
them.  I'm  tremendously  interested." 

"  I  will  —  mail  them  to  you,"  he  said  heavily. 
Slowly,  as  if  reluctant,  he  took  her  hand  again,  held 
it  just  a  moment,  and  then,  with  a  suddenness  that 
overwhelmed  her,  seized  her  in  his  arms  and  kissed 
her  hotly  on  the  lips.  Then,  like  a  shadow,  he  fled. 


82  THIRTY 

For  a  long  time  after  he  had  gone  Judith  sat  on 
the  balustrade,  listening  to  the  myriad  noises  of  the 
night,  and  pondering  on  what  had  befallen  her.  It 
had  been  a  very  eventful  day.  She  smiled  as  she  pon- 
dered on  its  contrasts.  But  she  sobered  as  she 
thought  of  Imrie.  She  felt  her  cheek  grow  warm  as 
she  recalled  his  kiss.  Then  a  faint  smile  widened 
her  lips  at  the  impetuosity  of  it.  It  was  so  unlike 
him.  He  had  never  shown  such  —  she  knew  he 
would  call  it  disrespect  —  but  that  was  not  the  word 
she  would  use.  She  hoped  he  would  not  apologise. 
That  would  spoil  it  all.  Perhaps  —  if  he  were  a 
little  less  respectful  .  .  . 

She  could  love  Imrie  the  man,  she  reflected,  as  she 
walked  slowly  into  the  house.  But  Imrie  the  clergy- 
man —  she  knew  for  a  certainty  that  that  was  im- 
possible. 


CHAPTER  IV 

OIL  AND  WATER 


"  You  see,  Miss  Wynrod,  I'm  as  sound  as  a  nut.  I 
can  gambol  like  a  lamb.  I  am  ready  again  to  dance 
to  the  world's  piping." 

It  was  just  six  weeks  to  a  day  after  his  introduction 
to  her  that  Good  made  this  announcement,  and  ex- 
ecuted a  lumbering  step  of  his  awn  devising,  to  prove 
its  truth. 

"  It's  now  the  season  of  the  sere  and  yellow  leaf. 
There's  work  to  be  done.  I  must  be  about  it,"  he 
added  more  seriously. 

"  If  you  work  as  you  gambol,  I  shouldn't  think 
you'd  be  much  in  demand,"  laughed  Judith. 

"Quite  so,"  admitted  Good,  blithely.  "But  if 
my  feet  are  clumsy  my  wits  are  nimble.  I  guess  I 
can  find  someone  to  hire  them  at  twelve  dollars  per 
week." 

'  Twelve  dollars  a  week !  You  don't  mean  to 
say  .  .  ." 

Good  raised  his  eyebrows.  "  Why,  surely.  Does 
that  surprise  you?  Of  course,"  he  added  half  apol- 
ogetically, "  that  doesn't  represent  my  own  valua- 

83 


84  THIRTY 

tion,  by  any  means.     But  The  World  is  a  poor  paper 
for  poor  people.     It  couldn't  pay  much." 

"  That's  all  very  well,"  she  cried,  "  but  why  did 
you  work  for  it?  " 

"  It  needed  me,"  he  said  simply,  and  she  was  si- 
lenced. There  were  stranger  things  in  this  man 
revealed  at  every  conversation.  She  had  never 
known  anyone  before  who  toiled  because  someone 
"  needed "  him.  She  was  shamed  by  her  own 
amazement. 

"  I  guess  I'll  go  on  the  10.46,"  he  said. 

"  No,"  she  cried.     "  You  won't." 

He  looked  up  at  her  in  some  surprise. 
'  That  is,  you  won't,"  she  added  more  mildly,  "  if 
you  care  to  do  me  a  favour." 

"  What  an  absurd  '  if.'     Give  your  orders." 

"  Well,  I  have  some  people  coming  to  dinner  on 
Wednesday.  I  —  I  —  want  them  to  know  you." 

;<  What  a  treat!  "  he  said  sarcastically. 

"  I  want  you  to  know  them,  too.  You  see,  they're 
all  rich  people.  And  you've  hated  them  without 
knowing  what  very  ordinary  human  beings  they 
really  are.  I  think  you  owe  it  to  your  own  sense  of 
fairness  to  see  some  of  the  oppressors  of  the  poor  in 
the  flesh." 

"  It's  quite  impossible,"  he  declared  firmly. 

She  chose  to  ignore  the  finality  of  his  tone. 

"  It  isn't  quite  just,  is  it,  to  write  articles  about  the 


OIL  AND  WATER  85 

feelings  and  the  motives  of  people  you  don't  really 
know?" 

He  strove  to  divert  the  argument.  "  There's 
something  in  perspective,  you  know." 

"  Before  chance  threw  us  together  you  thought 
me  distinctly  wicked.  You  don't  think  that  now,  do 
you?" 

"  I  told  the  paper  I  was  in  the  camps  of  the 
Persians,"  he  said  sententiously.  "  They  fired  me 
then.  Why  tarry  with  the  flesh-pots  further?" 

"  I've  often  heard  you  say  that  men  couldn't 
preach  heaven  until  they  knew  life." 

He  threw  up  his  hands  in  exasperation.  "  It  isn't 
fair  for  a  woman  to  be  logical  —  it  takes  a  man  un- 
awares." 

"  Then  you  admit  I  am  logical?  " 

"  Even  if  I  wanted  to  stay,  I  couldn't." 

"Why  not?" 

His  head  drooped  and  a  faint  colour  showed  under 
the  bronze  of  his  skin.  But  he  remained  silent. 

"What's  lacking?" 

His  discomfort  was  apparent.  "  I'd  like  to  fix  up 
a  bit  —  get  a  hair-cut  —  and  things,"  he  stammered. 

"  Well,  why  don't  you?  You've  got  two  whole 
days." 

Suddenly  he  straightened,  and  a  smile  broke  over 
his  reddened  features.  "  There's  no  use  being  silly 
about  it,  I  guess.  The  fact  is  —  I'm  broke." 


86  THIRTY 

"  Oh,  is  that  all.  Well,  that's  easily  fixed. 
Why  didn't  you  say  so  before?"  she  said  with  a 
smile.  "  You  ought  to  take  lessons  from  my 
brother." 

"  I  don't  need  all  this,"  he  stammered,  fingering 
the  bill  she  held  out  to  him. 

"  It's  the  smallest  I  have.  But  why  didn't  you 
tell  me?" 

"  One  doesn't  like  to  beg." 

"You're  hardly  consistent,  are  you?" 

"  No,  I'm  too  human." 

"  Will  you  be  human  enough  to  forsake  your 
principles  and  come  to  my  party?  " 

"  I'd  rather  not." 

"  That's  understood.  It  makes  the  favour 
greater.  But  you  will  come?  " 

"  If  I  must." 

"  I'll  be  very  grateful." 

"  Then  I  will."  The  words  came  from  him  with 
such  obvious  reluctance  that  she  could  not  resist 
a  smile. 

"  Do  be  back  in  plenty  of  time." 

"  I'd  rather  break  my  leg  again,"  he  said  gloomily. 
Then  declining  her  offer  of  the  motor-car  to  take 
him  to  the  station,  he  left  her. 

"  You're  stealing  my  class-consciousness  from 
me,"  he  called  from  the  gate  way. 

She  laughed,   not  quite   understanding  what  he 


OIL  AND  WATER  87 

meant,  and  watched  his  ungainly  figure  until  it  was 
out  of  sight.  Would  he  return?  Or  had  she  seen 
the  last  of  Brent  Good?  Finally  she  shrugged  her 
shoulders  and  tried  to  dismiss  him  from  her  mind. 

But  when  Wednesday  came,  and  no  Good,  nor 
word  from  him,  she  was  more  keenly  disappointed 
than  she  cared  to  admit.  The  two  o'clock  train 
brought  a  party  which  had  arranged  for  some  golf 
with  Roger. 

"Anyone  come  out  with  you?"  she  asked,  as 
if  the  question  were  of  no  consequence. 

"  Only  Joe  Faxon,"  said  one  of  the  men.  "  He 
was  bound  for  the  Warings'." 

At  three  Molly  Wolcott  came,  only  to  disappear 
promptly  in  the  direction  of  the  golf  course.  At 
five-thirty  all  had  arrived  with  the  exception  of  Delia 
Baker,  her  taciturn  husband, —  and  Good.  But  on 
the  next  train,  which  was  the  last,  the  first  two  came. 
She  greeted  them  as  gaily  as  she  could,  with  studied 
carelessness  inquiring  if  anyone  had  been  left  at 
the  station,  and  when  they  assured  her  that  no  one 
had,  she  abandoned  hope  definitely. 

'  You  have  the  darkest,  lonesomest  woods  out 
here  I  ever  saw,"  cried  Delia.  "  I  had  all  sorts 
of  thrills.  Every  time  I  saw  a  man  my  heart  came 
up  in  my  mouth!  " 

'  That,"  said  her  husband  cryptically,  "  is  quite 
as  usual." 


88  THIRTY 

But  Judith  heard  him  only  vaguely.  She  had 
caught  sight  of  a  familiarly  angular  figure  striding 
briskly  up  the  drive  way,  looming  grotesquely  tall 
in  the  dusk.  She  did  not  follow  the  others  as  they 
went  into  the  house.  She  remained  on  the  porch, 
a  prey  to  conflicting  emotions.  It  was  with  some 
difficulty  that  she  restrained  the  laugh  which  sprang 
to  her  lips  as  Good  came  into  the  light  from  the  hall. 
His  hair  had  been  trimmed,  his  face  was  newly 
shaven,  and  his  finger-nails,  she  noted,  as  he  held  out 
his  hand,  were  cleaner  than  she  had  ever  seen  them. 
That  was  enough  to  amaze  her.  But  when  he  flung 
back  his  long  rain-coat,  worn  in  spite  of  the  con- 
tinued drought  of  days,  and  revealed  evening  dress 
—  her  head  swam.  He  was  quite  conscious  of  the 
effect  he  had  made.  Indeed,  though  she  made  a 
strong  effort,  she  could  not  possibly  conceal  it.  But 
it  did  not  appear  to  displease  him.  He  smiled 
like  a  child,  and  turned  around  twice  for  her  in- 
spection. 

"Some  rags,  eh?"  he  cried,  smoothing  out  the 
wrinkles.  "  Sorry  the  coat  doesn't  match,  but  it 
was  the  best  I  could  get." 

Almost  tearfully  she  joined  in  his  enthusiasm. 
She  shut  her  eyes  to  the  antiquated  cut  of  the  gar- 
ment, its  unmistakable  shininess  at  the  elbows,  and 
what  must  have  been  apparent  even  to  himself,  the 
fact  that  it  fitted  him  only,  as  one  might  say,  inter- 


OIL  AND  WATER  89 

mittently.  But  he  was  too  pleased  to  care,  if  he 
had  noticed  such  trifles. 

"  That's  really  what  I  needed  the  money  for," 
he  explained.  "  I  wanted  to  bloom  like  a  green  bay 
tree  before  your  friends.  Pretty  cute,  eh?"  He 
turned  around  again,  and  catching  sight  of  himself 
in  the  mirror,  stood  preening  like  a  peacock. 
"  Makes  me  feel  half  dressed,  though,"  he  admitted 
somewhat  ruefully.  "  This  open-work  front  .  .  . 
I've  been  trying  to  hook  it  together  all  the  way  out  — 
but  there  aren't  any  hooks !  First  time  I  ever  wore 
one  of  these.  Look  at  the  buttons  on  the  vest. 
Ever  seen  anything  glitter  so  ?  I  tell  you,  Solomon 
in  all  his  glory  had  nothing  on  me !  " 

She  had  not  dressed  Roger  for  nothing,  and  her 
keen  eye  did  not  miss  the  numerous  minute  lapses 
from  perfection  in  Good's  attire.  The  general 
effect  just  missed  being  what  it  should  be.  But  his 
naive  pride  was  contagious.  She  found  herself  for- 
getting the  essential  absurdity  of  his  costume  in  his 
own  unqualified  delight. 

His  collar  was  prodigiously  high,  and  being  so 
much  taller  than  she,  it  was  impossible  for  their 
eyes  to  meet.  He  looked  for  all  the  world  like 
some  grotesque  bird,  fitted  with  a  more  or  less  pain- 
ful and  wholly  unaccustomed  harness. 

She  dropped  her  handkerchief  and  as  he  stooped 
to  pick  it  up  a  subdued  groan  came  from  him. 


90  THIRTY 

"  I  wonder  what  maniac  ever  devised  such  a  shirt," 
he  grumbled.  "  It's  correct  —  the  man  told  me  so 
—  showed  me  pictures  to  prove  it  ...  but  it  proves 
that  civilisation  isn't  civilised.  Catch  a  savage  in 
a  straight  jacket  like  this  —  I  guess  not." 

There  was  a  dreadful  pause  as  she  entered  the 
library  with  Good.  For  a  fleeting  instant  which 
seemed  minutes  to  her,  everyone  stared  at  the  new- 
comer. Then  breeding  reasserted  itself  and  Judith 
was  able  to  go  through  the  introductions  without 
further  embarrassment.  Good  stumbled  cheerfully 
over  ladies'  trains,  shook  hands  vigorously,  was 
uniformly  "  pleased  to  meet "  everyone,  and  ap- 
peared quite  unconscious  of  the  interested,  not  to  say 
amused  gazes  which  followed  him.  But  Judith 
could  see  plainly  that  he  was  not  sorry  when  the 
process  of  acquainting  him  with  the  other  guests 
was  over  and  he  could  slip  out  of  the  conversational 
maelstrom  into  the  quiet  backwaters  formed  by  the 
space  between  the  piano  and  the  wall,  to  stand  alone 
in  a  contemplative  and  awkward  silence.  She  was 
relieved,  too,  when  dinner  was  announced. 

She  had  been  in  doubt  as  to  just  where  to  place 
him  at  the  table,  but  had  finally  decided  on  Molly 
Wolcott.  She  was  a  very  animated  girl,  if  the  com- 
panion and  the  topic  interested  her,  and  extraor- 
dinarily taciturn  if  they  did  not.  Her  range  of  in- 
terests was  not  large,  being  chiefly  concerned  with 


OIL  AND  WATER  91 

the  various  ramifications  of  sport.  She  had  once 
been  known  to  turn  with  deliberation  from  a  dis- 
tinguished British  novelist,  to  a  callow  youth  whose 
sole  claim  to  distinction  lay  in  having  kicked  a  win- 
ning goal. 

Judith  felt  confident  that  Good  would  prove  quite 
without  attraction  for  her.  But  she  would,  for  that 
very  reason,  leave  him  severely  alone,  and  she  could, 
herself,  take  care  of  him.  With  that  in  view,  she  had 
left  her  own  avenues  open,  by  seating  at  her  left  a 
young  man  whose  concerns  were  almost  exclusively 
gastronomic. 

But,  as  usual,  Good  surprised  her.  Molly  began, 
as  was  to  be  expected,  by  giving  her  partner  a  cur- 
sory examination,  and  then  plunging  uncere- 
moniously into  a  heated  discussion  of  the  afternoon's 
golf,  with  Roger  who  sat  across  the  table. 

"  That  was  the  most  inexcusable  putt  I  ever  hope 
to  see,"  she  declared. 

"  I  was  afraid  of  it,"  confessed  Roger  dejectedly. 
"  That  hole  looked  like  the  eye  of  a  needle." 

"  You  can't  hole  short  putts  without  confidence," 
observed  Ned  Alder,  who  was  a  notoriously  bad 
golfer.  "  Now  I  always  .  .  ." 

;t  Why  don't  you  take  a  course  of  lessons  in  con- 
fidence ?  "  asked  Molly  rudely. 

"  Putting,"  began  Good  interrogatively,  when  the 
laugh  at  the  allusion  to  the  extent  and  fruitlessness 


92  THIRTY 

of  Alder's  golf  education  had  subsided,  "  is  .  .  ." 

"  The  act  of  putting  the  ball  in  the  hole,"  said 
Molly  with  a  mixture  of  surprise  and  impatience 
in  her  tone.  A  sudden  silence  fell  around  the  board 
as  the  entire  company  listened.  The  tall  stranger, 
such  an  object  of  curiosity  to  all  of  them,  had  spoken 
for  the  first  time. 

"  And  you  call  that  '  holing,'  I  believe?  "  he  went 
on  imperturbably. 

"  Yes,"  said  Roger,  sympathetic  with  Good's 
isolation. 

"  And  you  have  to  have  confidence  to  do  it  suc- 
cessfully?" 

"  Lord,  yes,"  said  Alder,  under  his  breath. 

"  Golf  must  be  a  very  ancient  game,"  mused 
Good  seriously.  The  painful  silence  continued. 
Judith  ached  to  say  something  that  would  rescue 
him  from  the  clumsy  predicament  into  which  he 
had  thrust  himself,  and  she  wanted  to  slap  Molly 
for  the  expression  of  supercilious  disdain  on  her 
face.  But  no  words  came  for  the  one  and  she  was 
not  quite  atavistic  enough  for  the  other. 

"  Yes,  it's  mentioned  in  Scripture,"  continued 
Good  finally,  when  the  pause  had  become  almost  un- 
bearable. "  You  recall  the  injunction  —  something 
like  this  — '  have  faith  and  it  will  make  thee  — 
hole'?" 

The   atrocious  pun  was  uttered  amid  a   silence 


OIL  AND  WATER  93 

which  needed  only  a  little  less  tact  on  the  part  of 
those  present  to  make  it  derisive,  and  with  the 
speaker  looking  down  at  his  plate,  seemingly  obliv- 
ious to  all  his  surroundings.  For  a  moment  even 
the  quiet  noises  of  service  seemed  to  be  stilled. 
Then,  with  first  a  half-intimated  gasp  of  amaze- 
ment, there  was  a  burst  of  almost  hysteric  laughter. 

It  was  a  gay  and  intimate  gathering,  and  Good's 
contribution  to  the  wit  of  the  evening,  served  to 
make  him,  temporarily  at  least,  part  of  it.  Molly 
Wolcott's  coolness  quite  deserted  her,  and  with  char- 
acteristic animation  she  turned  her  attention  to  this 
curious-looking  individual  who  had  the  audacity  to 
make  bad  jokes. 

Nor  was  it  a  temporary  interest.  With  increas- 
ing frequency  she  laughed  aloud.  The  man  on  her 
right  joined  her.  Judith  was  amazed.  She  studied 
Good  constantly,  not  overlooking  the  fact  that  his 
cocktail  was  untasted.  She  strained  her  ears  to 
catch  something  of  what  he  was  saying,  but  his  voice 
was  low,  and  he  seemed  to  be  talking  to  Molly 
almost  confidentially.  Finally,  at  a  particularly 
uproarious  bit  of  hilarity,  she  gave  way  to  her 
curiosity. 

;'  What  on  earth  are  you  talking  about?  "  she 
demanded,  when  a  lull  in  the  conversation  enabled 
her  to  be  heard. 

"  Oh,"  he  said,  "  I  was  just  telling  Miss  Wol- 


94  THIRTY 

cott  about  a  ball  game  I  pitched  in  the  Philippines. 
We  were  playing  the  1 7th  Infantry  and  they  got 
me  full  of  nepal.  I  did  some  curious  things,"  he 
added  reflectively. 

"Were  you  ever  in  the  army?"  she  asked  in 
amazement. 

"  Seven  years,"  he  answered.  "  Enough  to  be  a 
corporal." 

Then  he  turned  back  to  Molly,  and  Judith  was 
silent.  Would  she  ever  get  to  the  end  of  his  life 
and  the  things  into  which  it  had  led  him?  She 
wanted  to  ask  him  more,  but  he  was  too  obviously 
engrossed  in  his  companion,  and  as  the  duties  of  her 
own  position  required  attention,  she  had  no  further 
conversation  with  him. 

But  as  the  meal  progressed,  and  the  sherry  fol- 
lowed the  cocktails,  and  the  claret  followed  the 
sherry,  and  the  champagne  followed  the  claret,  the 
conversation  began  to  centre  more  and  more  around 
Good.  It  became  almost  a  monologue,  as  he  talked 
and  they  listened. 

Judith  was  mostly  silent,  in  sheer  amazement, 
although  occasionally  she  could  not  resist  a  smile  at 
his  drolleries.  And  when  he  told  stories,  she 
laughed  with  the  rest.  He  possessed  a  remarkable 
faculty  for  imitation,  and  the  characters  in  his 
stories  required  no  "  he  said "  to  identify  them. 
His  voice  and  manner  changed  for  each  one. 


OIL  AND  WATER  95 

Once,  in  a  pause,  she  interrupted  him. 

"  You  ought  to  be  on  the  stage,"  she  cried  admir- 
ingly. 

"  Never  again,"  he  said  shortly,  leaving  her  once 
more  in  dumfounded  silence. 

Never  had  she  sensed  this  social  side  to  her 
strange  guest.  Her  interest  in  him  had  been 
primarily  intellectual.  He  had  seemed  all  serious. 
She  had  never  forgotten  the  guise  in  which  he  had 
first  appeared  to  her.  But  this  was  so  utterly  dif- 
ferent. She  found  it  impossible  to  understand. 

As  she  scanned  the  laughing  faces  about  the  board, 
another  curious  thing  struck  her.  The  array  of 
glasses  in  front  of  Good  was  quite  untouched.  But 
the  same  phenomenon  was  to  be  observed  in  front 
of  her  brother.  It  was  the  first  time  she  had  ever 
seen  that,  and  as  she  rejoiced,  she  marvelled. 

It  was  an  unusually  effective  party,  she  reflected, 
as  they  rose,  leaving  the  men  to  their  cigars  and 
coffee,  and  the  cause  of  its  success  was  plain.  She 
smiled  to  herself  at  the  fears  with  which  she  had 
decided  upon  his  presence.  She  wondered  if  he 
guessed  how  surprised  she  was. 

But  later,  when  the  gathering  began  to  disinte- 
grate into  little  groups  of  two's  and  three's,  Good 
became  strangely  silent.  The  sparkle  had  gone  out 
of  his  eyes,  she  thought,  and  with  it,  the  sparkle 
from  his  mind.  The  bursts  of  laughter  became  less 


96  THIRTY 

frequent,  and  finally  ceased  altogether.  The  lines 
of  his  face  appeared  to  droop,  as  she  had  rarely 
seen  them,  and  he  stood  to  one  side,  rather  moodily, 
as  if  in  contemplation  of  his  companions.  His  be- 
haviour was  singular.  But  the  others  appeared  to 
notice  nothing  untoward.  Indeed,  many  of  them 
had  ceased  to  notice  him  at  all.  He  was  a  novelty, 
and  like  all  novelties  and  new  sensations,  with  them, 
he  had  begun  to  pall.  If  he  was  acting  deliberately, 
she  reflected,  he  was  acting  not  unwisely.  He  was 
withdrawing  at  the  apex  of  his  hour. 

Very  quickly  conversation  flagged,  as  she  knew  it 
inevitably  must.  These  friends  of  hers  had  little 
to  say,  she  knew,  nor  said  that  little  long.  Bridge 
was  proposed  and  accepted.  Tables  were  quickly 
formed,  and  in  a  very  few  moments  everyone  was 
engrossed  in  the  play.  That  is,  every  one  but  Delia 
Baker,  who  had  disappeared,  pleading  a  headache, 
and  her  silent  husband,  who  loathed  cards;  and 
Good,  who  did  not  play.  Judith  saw  the  two  men 
stroll  silently  together  out  onto  the  terrace;  and 
then,  a  moment  later,  through  a  door  on  the  other 
side  of  the  room,  Molly  Wolcott  and  Roger. 

It  must  be  something  momentous  she  reflected, 
that  could  entice  Molly  Wolcott  from  a  game  of 
any  sort  —  particularly  if  the  stakes  were  likely  to 
be  high.  And  it  was. 

The  momentum   in  this  case  was   furnished  by 


OIL  AND  WATER  97 

Roger  with  his  determined  insistence  that  she  have 
a  word  with  him. 

They  strolled  silently  through  the  garden  until 
they  came  to  one  of  the  stone  benches  by  the  tennis 
courts.  Roger  made  a  gallant  pretence  of  dusting 
it  off  with  his  handkerchief.  Then  he  sat  down 
beside  her. 

"  Well,"  she  said,  after  waiting  for  him  to  speak. 
"What  do  you  want  to  tell  me  about?" 

Roger  lit  a  cigarette  and  threw  the  match  away 
with  a  truculent  gesture. 

"  You  don't  need  to  be  so  cold-blooded  about  it," 
he  said  irritably. 

"  About  what?  "  she  asked  calmly. 

"  Oh,  you  know." 

"  I  haven't  an  idea,"  she  said  artlessly. 

"  Oh,  about  everything,"  he  stumbled  helplessly. 

"Everything?"  There  was  an  excellent  imita- 
tion of  astonishment  in  her  voice.  It  brought  him 
sharply  to  his  feet,  and  he  thrust  his  hands  into  his 
pockets  with  a  snort  of  impatience. 

'  Yes,  of  course,  my  loving  you  —  and  all  that." 

"  Oh  .  .  ."  Her  noncommittal  intonation  was 
perfectly  calculated. 

'  Well,  I  want  an  answer,"  he  demanded  bellig- 
erently. '  You  haven't  any  right  to  keep  me 
dangling  this  way." 

"  But  I  gave  you  an  answer." 


98  THIRTY 

"  Not  a  definite  one." 

"  I  don't  know  how  to  make  it  any  more  definite. 
I  told  you  I  ...  liked  you  better  than  anybody  else, 
and  some  day,  perhaps  — " 

"  Well,  that's  not  definite.  Why  don't  you  like 
me  well  enough  to  marry  me?" 

"  Oh,  but  I  do,"  she  insisted  warmly. 

'  You  do  ...  ?  "  He  was  nonplussed  by  that 
example  of  logic. 

"  Yes,  indeed  I  do." 

'  Well,  why  don't  you?  "  There  was  more  than 
a  hint  of  exasperation  in  his  voice.  He  was  fast 
losing  his  temper. 

"Because  .  .  ." 

"  Because  why?  For  goodness'  sake,  can't  you 
give  me  a  real  reason  .  .  .  something  I  can  use 
my  teeth  on?  " 

He  was  striding  rapidly  up  and  down  in  front  of 
her,  and  his  growing  wrath  was  so  ill  concealed  un- 
der a  very  obvious  effort  at  patience,  that  she  could 
not  resist  a  faint  chuckle.  He  caught  it  and 
stopped  short. 

"You're  laughing  at  me?"  he  declared,  half  in- 
terrogatively. 

"  Oh,  Roger,"  she  cried,  "  how  could  you 
think  that." 

"  You  were  ...  I  heard  you." 

11 1  wasn't." 


OIL  AND  WATER  99 

"Now  what's  the  use  of  saying  that?"  he  de- 
manded. 

"Don't  you  dare  talk  to  me  like  that!"  She 
was  bolt  upright  herself,  and  wrath  flamed  in  her 
own  eyes.  "  Don't  you  ever  dare  use  that  tone  to 
me,  Roger  Wynrod." 

"  I'm  sorry,"  he  said  humbly,  as  if  he  really  had 
committed  a  crime  of  incredible  enormity.  Then 
with  one  last  gasp  of  justification,  he  added  a  timid 
"  But  you  did  .  .  ." 

She  would  not  allow  him  to  finish.  Quite  illog- 
ically,  but  quite  completely,  she  had  changed  the 
positions.  From  being  the  defence  she  had  man- 
aged to  make  herself  the  prosecution,  and  Roger, 
being  thoroughly  masculine,  was  utterly  dum- 
founded  at  the  shift.  And  she,  being  as  equally 
feminine,  took  up  her  new  position  with  renewed 
vigour.  Her  voice  was  full  of  a  most  righteous 
scorn  when  she  spoke. 

"  I  didn't  laugh  at  you.  But  suppose  I  did.  I'd 
be  justified.  Why  should  I  want  to  marry  you? 
You're  not  even  a  man  yet.  You're  just  a  boy. 
You've  never  done  anything  a  man  should.  You 
even  let  that  kid  Jenkins  beat  you  this  afternoon. 
You're  just  a  good-for-nothing  lazybones,  that's 
what  you  are,  and  you  want  me  to  marry  you." 

Roger  tried  unsuccessfully  to  interrupt  her,  each 
time  she  paused  for  breath,  but  it  only  seemed  to 


ioo  THIRTY 

intensify  the  flow  of  her  condemnation.  He  grew 
more  and  more  uncomfortable,  because  part,  at  least, 
of  what  she  said,  he  knew  to  be  true. 

"  I  didn't  mean  to  start  anything  like  this,"  he 
put  in  mournfully.  "  I  don't  know  how  it  ever 
started." 

She  did  not  know  either,  but  she  managed  to  con- 
vey to  him  the  conviction  that  it  was  most  deliber- 
ate. And  that,  as  she  knew  it  would,  only  made 
him  more  mournful  still.  It  was  in  a  very  chastened 
voice  and  manner  that  he  acquiesced  in  her  sugges- 
tion that  they  return  to  the  house. 

He  would  have  been  astonished,  as  they  walked 
silently  in,  had  he  known  the  very  intense  desire 
that  consumed  her,  to  kiss  him. 

From  the  funereal  aspect  of  Roger's  countenance, 
and  the  contented  cheerfulness  of  Molly's,  as  they 
entered  the  room,  Judith  was  able  to  surmise  very 
shrewdly  something  of  what  had  taken  place.  She 
ached  to  tell  her  doleful  brother  what,  with  true 
masculine  obtuseness,  he  never  in  the  world  would 
guess. 

Indoors,  the  evening  dragged  along,  uneventful 
to  the  point  of  stupidity.  There  was  a  little  excite- 
ment, not  unmixed  with  acerbity,  when  Ned  Alder, 
contrary  to  his  usual  habit,  proved  clever  enough 
with  the  cards  to  add  a  not  inconsiderable  sum  to  his 
already  swollen  fortune.  But  his  amazed  joy  was 


OIL  AND  WATER  101 

more  than  offset  by  Roger's  patent  depression  and 
Molly's  inexplicable  apathy.  Altogether  it  was  not 
as  successful  a  party,  as  it  had  given  promise  of  be- 
ing, and  it  broke  up  early. 

As  the  adieus  were  being  said,  Judith  realised  that 
Good  was  missing.  In  the  early  part  of  the  even- 
ing, he  had  wandered  in  and  out,  now  watching  the 
play,  now  chatting  momentarily  with  someone  who 
was  free;  but  had  finally  disappeared.  She  could 
not  believe  that  his  unceremonious  absence  was  per- 
manent, although  she  knew  that  that  was  not  im- 
possible. So  as  soon  as  she  could,  after  attending 
to  the  comfort  of  those  who  were  to  spend  the  night 
with  her,  she  went  in  search  of  him. 

II 

But  while  she  dallied,  Tragedy  was  stalking  in 
the  Wynrod  gardens,  where  only  Comedy  was 
meant  to  play. 

Good,  after  those  restless  efforts  to  behave  as 
a  gentleman  should  behave,  which  Judith  had  noted, 
had  betaken  himself  with  his  musings  to  the  peace- 
ful solitude  of  the  garden.  What  was  a  common- 
place to  the  others  still  bore  a  singular  charm  for 
him.  He  was  content  to  smoke  and  dream  and 
watch  the  shadows  at  their  endless  dance.  He  was 
vaguely  tired,  and  it  was  very  quiet. 

But  his  peace  was  short.     The  sound  of  whisper- 


102  THIRTY 

ing  voices  came  to  him  through  the  trees.  At  first 
he  thought  it  only  the  rustling  of  the  leaves.  Then 
the  sudden,  strangled  cry  of  a  woman  brought  him 
to  his  feet,  his  heart  pounding.  For  a  moment  he 
stood  listening,  every  muscle  in  a  tremble.  The 
voices  could  be  heard  more  clearly  now,  and  they 
seemed  to  come  from  a  small  summer-house  just 
behind  him.  He  moved  slowly  toward  it. 

"  I  think  we'll  end  this  right  here."  He  recog- 
nised the  voice  as  Baker's,  though  unbelievably 
changed.  The  words  seemed  to  come  through 
clenched  teeth.  Another  voice  —  a  man's  —  made 
some  reply,  but  the  chatter  of  the  crickets  and  the 
plashing  of  a  fountain  prevented  him  from  catch- 
ing what  it  was.  He  relaxed  and  was  about  to  turn 
around,  when  that  same  agonised  choking  call  smote 
his  ears  again.  He  hesitated  no  longer. 

As  he  plunged  into  the  little  building  a  branch 
swayed  in  the  breeze  and  the  moonlight  broke 
through.  It  revealed  two  men  facing  each  other. 
One  was  Baker.  His  fist  was  raised  and  clenched. 
The  other  he  could  not  place  for  a  moment.  Then 
it  flashed  upon  him.  He  had  seen  him  once  be- 
fore. It  was  Faxon. 

"  Now  then  — "  Good's  lean  wrist  shot  for- 
ward. "  Wait  a  bit."  Baker  struggled  momenta- 
rily but  futilely.  Good  was  a  powerful  man  when 
he  chose  to  exert  himself. 


OIL  AND  WATER  103 

"  Fine  business,  this,"  said  Good  as  coolly  as  if 
he  were  inspecting  a  company  on  dress  parade. 
44  What's  the  excitement?"  As  he  spoke  he  was 
conscious  that  there  was  a  third  person  in  the  shel- 
ter, beside  the  two  men  —  a  woman.  Then  a  gleam 
of  light  entered  momentarily  and  he  realised  that 
it  was  Baker's  wife.  With  a  low  whistle  he  turned 
to  Faxon. 

"  I  guess  you'd  better  scoot,"  he  said  calmly, 
more  as  an  order  than  as  a  suggestion.  With  a 
not  very  successful  effort  at  nonchalance  Faxon 
shrugged  his  shoulders  and  went  out.  As  he 
passed  Baker  the  latter  moved  convulsively,  but 
Good's  hand  tightened  on  his  arm.  When  Faxon 
had  gone  and  was  out  of  earshot,  Good  released 
his  hold  and  sat  down.  Baker  stood  staring  ston- 
ily at  the  figure  disappearing  in  the  hydrangeas. 
His  wife,  looking  very  frail  and  pitiful,  had  col- 
lapsed on  the  bench,  her  face  buried  in  her  arms. 
There  was  complete  silence,  save  for  her  slow,  pain- 
ful sobbing. 

"  Well  — "  began  Good  hesitatingly.  The  other 
man  turned  sharply  at  the  sound,  his  face  a  curious 
compound  of  wrath  and  weariness. 

"  Right  on  the  job,  aren't  you?  "  he  said,  quietly 
enough,  though  his  manner  was  coldly  insulting. 
And  when  Good  made  no  reply,  he  added,  with 
a  brutal  sneer,  "  You  ought  to  make  a  hit  with 


104  THIRTY 

this.  Scandal  in  high  life  —  with  all  the  details. 
I  suppose  it'll  be  what  you  call  a  '  scoop,'  won't 
it?" 

"  You  think  I'm  that  sort,  do  you?  " 

"Why  shouldn't  you?  It's  your  business.  I 
suppose  you'd  like  my  photograph  and  a  signed 
statement?  " 

"  Let  it  go  at  that,"  sighed  Good.  "  That's  my 
business.  But  to-night  I'm  off  duty.  I'm  one  of 
your  fellow  guests.  I'm  playing  gentleman.  Give 
me  credit  for  being  a  good  actor.  I'll  stay  in  the 
part." 

"Have  you  anything  else  to  say?"  The  ques- 
tion was  put  icily. 

"  Oh,  cut  the  tragedy,"  said  Good  with  a  wave  of 
his  long  hand.  "  I'm  told  you're  a  scrapper,  my 
friend.  Well,  you're  not  going  to  show  the  yel- 
low now,  are  you?  It  looks  to  me  as  if  you  had  a 
first-class  scrap  on  your  hands  now.  What  are  you 
going  to  do  —  snivel  —  or  get  sore  —  or  lie  down 
—  or  ...  what?  " 

When  Baker  made  no  answer,  Good  rose  and 
stood  looking  thoughtfully  at  the  pair,  almost  ob- 
literated in  the  shadows,  only  the  high-lights  show- 
ing. 

"  I  guess  I'll  go  now,"  he  said  quietly.  "  This 
doesn't  seem  to  be  my  party." 

Then  he  laughed  cheerfully.     "  Lucky  my  being 


OIL  AND  WATER  105 

here,   wasn't  it?     You  were   staging  great  drama 
when  I  came  in." 

He  turned  from  the  doorway  and  looked  back. 
A  smile  crept  over  his  craggy  features,  tender,  a 
little  wistful.  With  a  shrug  he  straightened  his 
shoulders,  and  he  was  whistling  as  he  walked  away, 
his  jerky  movements  casting  grotesque  shadows  on 
the  grass. 

Ill 

Judith  did  not  press  her  search  for  Good  very 
rapidly.  The  night,  with  the  soft  and  pungent  haze 
of  Indian  summer  filling  the  air,  and  the  drowsy 
moon  bathing  the  gardens  in  argent  mystery,  cast 
their  spell  about  her,  and  she  lingered  frequently. 
The  crickets  chirped  like  mad,  snatches  of  distant 
music  came  faintly  to  her  ears,  and  the  gentle  fra- 
grance of  the  flowers  filled  her  nostrils.  It  was  on 
such  a  night,  she  reflected,  that  Imrie  .  .  . 

She  found  Good  finally,  more  by  accident  than 
design,  in  a  distant  corner  of  the  garden.  He  was 
hunched  forward  in  his  seat,  and  his  head  was  on 
his  chest.  At  first  she  thought  him  asleep.  Then 
she  heard  him  scratch  a  match.  The  momentary 
glow  showed  his  brows  drawn  close  together.  It 
was  a  way  he  had,  she  knew,  when  his  thoughts  were 
troublesome. 

"  It's  late,  Mr.  Good,"  she  said. 


io6  THIRTY 

"  Hello,"  he  cried,  with  a  start.  Then  he  recog- 
nised her.  "  Oh  —  everybody  gone?  " 

'  Yes  —  and  sorry  to  miss  you." 

"  Poppycock,"  he  said  succinctly. 

"  Don't  you  believe  they  were?  " 

His  only  reply  was  a  short  laugh  —  not  pleasant. 
She  changed  the  subject  quickly. 

"  I  never  dreamed  you  could  be  so  entertaining. 
You  were  the  life  of  the  party." 

"  A  parakeet  could  do  as  well,"  he  snapped. 
"  This  is  a  rather  old  pipe  —  mind  it?  " 

"  Of  course  not."  His  abrupt  manner,  so  dif- 
ferent from  his  former  amiability,  kept  her  silent. 
Nor  did  he  make  any  effort  to  speak.  He  managed 
to  make  her  feel  that  she  was  intruding.  He  seemed 
to  want  to  be  alone.  That  annoyed  her. 

"  Mr.  Good,"  she  said  sharply.  "  Just  what  is 
the  matter  with  you?" 

He  made  no  attempt  to  deny  or  evade.  That 
was  not  like  him.  But  his  reply  was  a  little  discon- 
certing, none  the  less. 

'  There's  nothing  the  matter  with  me,"  he  said 
slowly.  "  It's  you  —  and  they  —  and  the  whole 
darned  system  of  things." 

"  I  don't  understand." 

"  I  didn't  think  you  would,"  he  said  ungraciously. 
"  If  you  did  you  wouldn't  wonder  why  I  was  out 
here  with  my  old  pipe." 


OIL  AND  WATER  107 

"Won't  you  explain  it  to  me  then?"  she  asked 
gently.  She  realised  that  he  was  greatly  perturbed 
about  something.  His  very  ungraciousness  —  so 
unlike  him  —  betrayed  him. 

"  I  can't  explain  it.     I  don't  think  anybody  can." 

"Won't  you  try  ...  please?" 

He  smoked  furiously  for  a  moment,  without  re- 
plying. Then,  with  a  sudden  gesture,  he  emptied 
the  ashes,  with  a  sharp  knock  on  his  heel. 

"  Oh,  don't  bother  about  me,  Miss  Wynrod,"  he 
said,  more  softly.  "  I'm  just  sore  because  I  ... 
oh,  I  should  never  have  come  out  to-night." 

"  But  you  were  so  clever  —  you  made  such  a 
hit.  .  .  ."  She  tried  hard  to  follow  him,  but  found 
it  difficult. 

'  That  isn't  the  point.  You  see,  I  didn't  fit  in. 
I  was  an  outsider.  I  thought  I  was  a  picture  when 
I  left  the  city  in  —  this."  She  noticed  for  the  first 
time  that  his  collar  was  unbuttoned,  and  his  waist- 
coat thrown  open.  "  But  when  I  saw  myself  beside 
those  other  fellows  .  .  .  And  then,  the  things  at 
table.  I  was  scared  to  death  —  all  the  time.  You 
people  can  eat  with  a  dozen  forks  and  enjoy  it. 
I  can't.  I'm  not  used  to  it.  I  .  .  ." 

"  But  those  things  aren't  important.  You've 
told  me  so  yourself." 

"  That's  just  it,"  he  cried  hotly.  "  They're  not. 
But  you  — " 


io8  THIRTY 

"  I?  " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  mean  you,  personally  —  you  — 
your  class,  your  friends  —  make  me  feel  as  if  they 
were  important.  Why  should  such  little  things 
make  such  a  part  of  life  ?  You  and  I  are  miles  apart 
because  of  trifles.  The  big  things,  the  real  things, 
where  are  they?  I'm  your  inferior  because  —  be- 
cause —  I  can't  use  an  oyster  fork.  And  yet  I'm 
your  equal  in  things  that  matter.  I'm  beneath  — 
those  —  emptyheads,  your  friends.  I  used  words 
they  couldn't  understand  .  .  .  but  I'm  '  common.' 
They  made  me  hate  them  —  those  nice  people  — 
hate  the  ground  they  tread.  .  .  ." 

She  was  amazed  at  the  intensity  with  which  he 
spoke.  She  wanted  to  say  something  to  calm  him, 
but  there  seemed  nothing  to  say.  He  sucked  mood- 
ily for  a  moment  on  his  empty  pipe.  Then  his  voice 
softened  again. 

"  I  oughtn't  to  talk  this  way  about  your  friends 
—  but  it's  hard  for  me  not  to  be  candid  .  .  .  with 
you,"  he  said  quietly.  "  I've  said  my  mind  to  you 
so  uniformly,  you  know." 

"  Please  do  —  always,"  she  said  seriously. 

"  I  don't  want  you  to  feel  that  I'm  bitter  against 
these  people  personally  —  it's  all  for  what  they 
signify.  Why  should  they  be  handsome  and  strong 
and  well  dressed  and  —  have  good  manners  .  .  . 


OIL  AND  WATER  109 

and  I  have  none  of  those  things?  They've  had 
everything,  and  I  —  usually  I'm  a  philosopher  .  .  . 
funny,  isn't  it,  that  a  perfectly  sound  philosophy 
should  get  drowned  in  such  a  little  thing  as  a  finger- 
bowl." 

"Why  should  we  have  all  those  things?"  she 
asked  thoughtfully,  more  to  herself  than  to  him. 
He  turned  around  at  that,  and  studied  her. 

"  I've  often  wondered  if  you'd  ever  say  that?" 
he  said. 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "  I've  said  it  often 
—  lately." 

"  And  what  is  the  answer?  " 

"  I  don't  know." 

"  And  that's  the  right  one.     Nobody  does." 

"  It  is  unjust  and  wrong.  I  can't  get  away  from 
that.  But  what  to  do  —  I  don't  know  that." 

"  Go  sell  what  thou  hast  .  .  .  and  come  follow 
me,"  said  Good  slowly,  as  if  merely  repeating  a 
formula,  and  not  caring  whether  she  heard  or  not. 
It  struck  her  as  curious  that  that  should  have  been 
the  text  of  the  first  sermon  she  had  ever  heard  Imrie 
preach. 

"Suppose  I  did  —  give  up  all?"  she  asked. 

He  refilled  and  lighted  his  pipe  before  he  replied. 

''  I've  never  wondered  much  about  the  young  man 
who  went  away  sad  because  he  had  great  posses- 


no  THIRTY 

sions,"  he  said  gently.  "  But  I've  wondered  a  lot 
what  he  did  —  afterwards.  The  book  doesn't  tell 
us  that." 

"  I  don't  understand." 

"  It  isn't  being  rich  that  counts,  Miss  Wynrod," 
he  said  with  a  passionate  earnestness  that  she  seldom 
saw  in  him,  "  it's  what  you  do  with  your  riches. 
That's  the  question  you've  got  to  ask  yourself." 

"  Don't  most  rich  people  do  that?  "  she  asked. 

"  Some  —  yes.  Most  ?  Umm  —  I'm  inclined  to 
think  —  not." 

'  You  think  even  those  that  do,  get  the  wrong 
answer,  don't  you?  " 

"  Mostly  —  yes." 

His  assurance  vaguely  irritated  her.  She  put  her 
question  rather  sharply. 

"Mr.  Good,  if  you  were  wealthy  —  oh,  very 
wealthy  —  what  would  you  do  ?  " 

"You  think  I've  never  thought  of  that?"  he 
asked  quizzically. 

"Have  you?" 

"  Indeed,  yes.  All  my  life,  I  guess.  But  am  I 
suddenly  made  rich  —  or  born  with  it?  " 

"Suddenly?  No.  You've  had  it  always  —  and 
your  father  had  it  before  you." 

'  Then  I'd  build  fine  homes  and  have  many  serv- 
ants. I'd  have  automobiles  and  yachts  and  pictures 
and  first  editions.  I'd  contribute  to  political  cam- 


OIL  AND  WATER  in 

paign  funds,  and  give  scholarships  to  my  college, 
and  build  libraries  and  hospitals,  and  install  rest 
rooms  and  gymnasiums  and  summer  camps  in  my 
stores  and  factories.  I'd  be  generous  and  upright, 
and  when  I  died  I  would  be  very  much  respected 
and  not  a  little  loved." 

There  was  an  indefinable  feeling  of  banter  in 
his  tone,  which  she  found  hard  to  explain.  But 
she  went  on,  hoping  that  he  would  explain  it  him- 
self. 

"  And  if  it  came  to  you  suddenly?  " 

"  I  wouldn't  give  a  cent  to  charity  nor  to  hospitals 
nor  libraries.  And  I'd  lose  all  my  friends,  and 
probably  be  shot  like  a  mad  dog." 

She  was  stunned  with  the  vehemence  of  his  curious 
words.  But  before  she  could  speak  he  added  sud- 
denly, even  more  fervently. 

"  I'd  live  and  die  hated  by  those  closest  to  me. 
But  I'd  buy  the  greatest  jewel  in  the  world,  and  I'd 
leave  it  to  those  who  wouldn't  possibly  appreciate 
it." 

"  And  what  is  that?  "  she  asked  in  amazement. 
'  The  truth,"  he  said  simply. 

For  a  little  while  he  sat  smoking  moodily,  gazing 
off  into  space,  busy  with  his  dream.  She  sensed  that 
she  had  struck  the  major  chord  in  his  heart,  and  she 
was  silent  too,  out  of  a  curious  feeling  of  awe,  as  if 
she  were  in  some  innermost  sanctuary.  It  was  a 


ii2  THIRTY 

moment  vibrant  with  emotion.  Then,  with  a  rush, 
but  in  a  tone  that  was  very  firm  and  business-like, 
he  began  to  pour  out  his  soul  to  her. 

"  What  the  world  needs,  Miss  Wynrod,  is  not 
charity,  not  the  kind  of  altruism  that  polishes  off 
effects,  but  a  force  that  will  remove  and  eliminate 
causes.  Money  causes  most  of  the  evil  in  the  world. 
Money  can  cure  it.  But  it  won't  do  to  fill  stomachs 
or  even  heads.  When  they  die  the  job  has  to  be 
done  all  over  again.  We've  got  to  sweep  the  old 
world  off  the  boards,  and  build  a  new  one  in  its 
place.  And  the  new  world  must  be  for  all.  The 
people  must  rule  and  be  ruled.  There  are  lots  of 
panaceas  on  the  market.  There's  the  single  tax  — 
giving  the  land  back  to  its  owners  —  the  people. 
That  will  help.  But  it's  not  enough.  Then  there's 
Socialism.  I  worked  for  a  Socialist  paper,  but  I 
wasn't  a  Socialist.  Socialism  isn't  enough.  It's 
too  narrow,  too  material,  too  bigoted.  It  isn't 
spiritual  enough.  It  isn't  elastic  enough.  We 
don't  want  dogma,  we  want  light.  We  don't  want 
to  stop  exploitation.  We  want  to  tell  the  people 
how  they're  exploited.  They'll  stop  it  for  them- 
selves, when  they  know  —  when  they  know  their  own 
power.  They've  got  to  know  what  is  going  on  in 
the  world.  Germs  can't  live  in  sunlight  and  oxygen. 
And  the  germs  that  cause  poverty  and  disease  and 
misery  of  all  kinds  can't  live  in  the  sunlight  and  the 


OIL  AND  WATER  113 

oxygen  of  publicity.  Publicity,  publicity,  what  magic 
would  it  wreak!  "  There  was  almost  ecstasy  in  his 
voice,  in  the  flicker  of  his  eyes,  fixed  in  space. 

"But  don't  we  have  publicity  —  now?"  she 
asked  timidly,  not  wholly  grasping  the  significance 
of  his  talk. 

"  Of  a  sort,  yes,"  he  admitted,  "  but  not  the  kind 
I  mean.  Most  of  the  avenues  of  publicity  are  the 
avenues  for  special  pleaders.  The  owners  of  news- 
papers and  magazines  have  axes  to  grind,  they  have 
policies  —  some  good,  some  bad  —  always  policies. 
They  present  what  happens  so  as  to  bolster  up  some 
preconceived  theory.  That's  not  truth  —  it's  prop- 
aganda." 

"Is  the  press  all  dishonest?"  she  asked  in  sur- 
prise, somewhat  tinged  with  irritation  at  what 
seemed  like  a  crude  generality. 

"  Not  dishonest,  no.  The  average  newspaper 
would  rather  be  honest  than  not.  And  those  who 
wouldn't,  find  that  honesty  pays  better  than  dis- 
honesty. But  they're  honest  about  things  that  don't 
matter  and  silent  about  those  that  do." 

"  For  instance  — " 

'  Well,  you  remember  our  first  meeting  —  how 
I  came  to  interview  you  about  the  Algoma  mine 
trouble?" 

"  I'm  not  likely  to  forget  it,"  she  said  a  little 
sadly. 


ii4  THIRTY 

"  Well,  what  do  you  know  about  the  situation 
there?" 

"  There  was  a  little  in  the  papers  a  month  or  so 
ago." 

"And—" 

"And?" 

"Yes,  isn't  there  something  else?" 

"  Oh,  you  mean  the  letters  from  the  directors?  " 

"  Exactly.  Your  sources  of  information  are  first 
from  those  interested  only  in  a  '  story,'  without 
much  regard  for  getting  to  the  disagreeable  bottom, 
and  second  from  those  interested  in  getting  a  verdict 
for  their  own  side." 

"  Is  there  any  other  source?" 

"  There  is.  Congress  sent  a  special  investigating 
committee  out  there — " 

"What  did  it  find?" 

"  The  question  proves  my  point.  The  findings 
of  that  committee  are  buried  away  in  bulky  volumes 
that  nobody  sees,  while  the  world  is  fed  half  on  fic- 
tion and  half  on  lies." 

"  Why  don't  the  newspapers  tell  us  what's  in 
those  bulky  volumes?" 

"  Because,"  he  said,  with  ineffable  dejection,  as  if 
trying  to  answer  a  question  that  he  knew  he  could 
not  answer,  "it  wouldn't  be  interesting — and  it 
wouldn't  pay." 


OIL  AND  WATER  115 

"  Must  everything  in  a  newspaper  pay?"  she  de- 
manded. 

"  That's  what  newspapers  are  run  for,"  he  said 
sadly.  "  They've  got  to  pay  —  pay  —  always  to 
pay.  ;  .  .» 

His  voice  trailed  off  into  a  whisper,  and  he  sat 
silent.  She  tried  to  win  him  back  to  the  theme  upon 
which  he  had  talked  so  earnestly,  and  which  had 
stirred  her  more  than  she  realised.  But  as  if  fear- 
ful that  he  had  not  been  understood,  he  proved  ob- 
durate. Finally  he  rose  and  held  out  his  hand. 

"  I  must  say  good  night  and  good-bye,  Miss  Wyn- 
rod.  I  will  not  see  you  in  the  morning.  I  must 
take  the  early  train.  It  was  good  of  you  to  ask  me 
out  to-night.  I'm  sorry  I  couldn't  seem  more  — 
more  —  appreciative." 

A  thought  flashed  across  her  mind  as  they  walked 
slowly  back  to  the  house. 

'You  will  come  and  see  me  —  occasionally?" 
she  asked,  as  they  stood  on  the  terrace. 

;' Why  should  you  want  me  to?"  he  said  quiz- 
zically, looking  at  her  in  a  curiously  searching  way. 

"Because  —  because  —  well  .  .  ."  she  flound- 
ered, unable  to  put  in  words  precisely  what  she  felt. 

"  Because  I  tell  you  things?  "  he  put  in  for  her. 
That  clarified  her  answer. 

"  No,"  she  said  thoughtfully.     "  Because  you  say 


n6  THIRTY 

things  I've  only  thought.  You  see,  I've  read  more 
than  most  people  give  me  credit  for,"  she  added 
somewhat  irrelevantly. 

He  studied  her  from  beneath  his  heavy  eyebrows. 

u  Keep  on,  my  friend,"  he  said  very  slowly. 
"  Keep  on  thinking.  And  then  .  .  .  act.  There 
are  great  deeds  before  you  —  noble,  shining  deeds 
...  if  you'll  only  do  them.  Yes,  some  day  I  shall 
come  again,  and  we  shall  talk  further  upon  these 
matters  .  .  .  and  then  —  perhaps  —  who  knows 
what  may  come  of  it?  "  He  finished  dreamily. 

As  he  took  her  hand  and  held  it,  she  sensed  a 
tender  smile  upon  his  lips,  and  a  half  uttered  ques- 
tion in  his  eyes.  But  he  said  no  word.  He  was 
almost  out  of  sight  in  the  darkness  when  a  thought 
flashed  across  her  mind.  She  called  him  back. 

"  Mr.  Good  .  .  .  why  didn't  Roger  drink  any- 
thing to-night?  Have  you  any  idea?" 

"  Yes,"  he  said  simply.  "  I  told  him  .  .  .  what 
it  did  to  me." 


CHAPTER  V 

A  SLEEPER  WAKES 

WITH  the  first  frost  Judith  closed  her  house  at  Brae- 
burn  and  returned  to  the  city.  For  a  little  while 
she  rested  quietly,  recovering  from  the  strenuous 
gaieties  of  the  summer.  Her  friends  —  particularly 
the  men  —  smiled  when  she  said  that  she  never  had 
a  vacation:  but  that  was  literally  true.  The  de- 
mands upon  her  time  were  far  more  rigorous  than 
were  those  of  any  business  man  of  her  acquaintance. 
In  the  conventional  significance  of  the  word  her  life 
was  hardly  toilsome,  but  it  was  none  the  less  most 
arduously  occupied. 

There  was  the  management  of  her  huge  house  — 
in  itself  a  task  of  no  mean  proportions.  There  were 
the  board  meetings  of  the  various  civic,  religious  and 
charitable  organisations,  to  which  she  devoted  a  very 
conscientious  interest.  There  were  the  inescapable 
appointments  with  her  hairdresser,  her  manicurist, 
her  masseuse,  and  the  small  army  of  personal  at- 
tendants who  joined  their  efforts  in  the  conserva- 
tion and  embellishment  of  her  body  beautiful. 
There  were  the  "  courses  "  she  must  take,  the  books 
that  must  be  read,  and  the  plays  that  must  be  seen. 

117 


n8  THIRTY 

And  finally,  as  an  end  or  as  a  cause  —  she  never 
could  determine  which  —  were  the  luncheons,  the 
receptions,  the  dinners,  the  calls,  and  the  balls,  which 
followed  one  another  in  never  ending  course  and  in 
never  ending  monotony. 

After  a  few  weeks  of  what  was  as  near  to  inaction 
as  she  ever  attained,  Judith  plunged  anew  into  the 
rapid  course  she  had  swum  since  childhood.  But 
for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  she  was  consciously  dis- 
satisfied. For  the  first  time  she  knew,  and  ad- 
mitted that  she  knew,  that  her  multifarious  activi- 
ties were  not  enough.  There  was  something  lack- 
ing. It  was  in  such  a  mood  that  Imrie  found  her 
when  he  came  up  to  see  her  one  evening.  For  the 
first  time  in  the  years  he  had  known  her,  there  were 
little  lines  of  discontent  and  ennui  about  her  mouth. 
Her  usual  vivacity,  her  cheerful  wit,  seemed  to  have 
vanished,  and  in  their  place  was  a  seriousness  that 
was  almost  sullen,  a  conversational  reserve  that  was 
almost  hostile. 

But  he  was  not  wholly  sorry  that  he  found  her 
so.  He  had  come  on  a  mission  of  business,  and  he 
was  rather  glad  that  her  attitude  seemed  to  pre- 
clude anything  savouring  of  the  personal.  He  still 
felt  somewhat  sensitive  at  the  recollection  of  the 
circumstances  of  their  last  meeting.  He  broached 
his  topic  quickly. 

"  I've  brought  the  plans,"  he  said  briskly,  "  and 


A  SLEEPER  WAKES  119 

some  sketches.  They  are  wonderful,  I  think. 
McKee  has  spent  a  lot  of  time  on  them.  It  won't 
be  a  Westminster,  of  course,  but  there  will  be  noth- 
ing in  this  part  of  the  country  to  compare  with  it." 

He  spread  the  prints  out  before  her  with  a  curious 
mixture  of  pride  and  enthusiasm  and  complacency; 
pride  in  this  long-cherished  darling  of  his  heart,  a 
St.  Viateur's  which  should  rival  the  most  splendid 
temples  of  the  old  world;  enthusiasm  for  the  co- 
operation accorded  by  architects  and  designers; 
complacency  for  the  magnitude  of  his  own  achieve- 
ment. He  was  not  aggressively  self-satisfied:  but 
he  was  far  from  insensible  to  the  fact  that  he  was 
extraordinarily  young  to  be  the  rector  of  as  rich 
and  powerful  a  congregation  as  that  of  St.  Viateur's. 
And  a  chance  remark,  overheard  one  day  in  the 
University  Club,  spoken  by  his  bishop  to  one  of  his 
vestrymen,  sounded  not  unreasonably  in  his  ears  — 
"  He  will  go  far  —  young  Imrie." 

But  he  was  disappointed  at  Judith's  reception. 
She  fingered  the  drawings  listlessly,  and  admired 
them  without  enthusiasm.  His  own  eagerness 
cooled  before  her  unexpressed  indifference.  He  had 
come  fired  with  his  dream.  Before  her  it  paled  and 
died  to  grey  ashes.  Its  beauty  faded,  leaving  only 
a  question  and  dull  pain.  It  was  very  dear  to  him. 
It  represented  achievement,  success,  glory  —  and  all 
three  won  in  the  service  of  man  and  to  the  greater 


120  THIRTY 

honour  and  glory  of  God:  but  Judith  was  dearer 
still.  For  her  not  to  rejoice  with  him  was  to  take 
all  joy  out  of  it.  He  sat  wounded  and  silent,  un- 
able to  go  on,  almost  not  caring. 

"  It  will  cost  ...  a  great  deal  .  .  ."  she  said, 
more  meditatively  than  interrogatively.  He  nodded, 
wondering  at  her  tone. 

"  Do  you  think  it's  the  best  way  to  spend  that 
much  money?  "  she  shot  at  him  suddenly,  her  brows 
knitted.  It  surprised  him,  but  he  answered 
promptly : 

"  I  know  of  none  better." 

She  stared  at  him  and  through  him  for  a  mo- 
ment. Then  her  mood  seemed  to  change.  She 
laughed  metallically,  and  reaching  lazily  toward  a 
silver  box  at  her  elbow,  selected  a  cigarette  and 
lighted  it.  It  was  a  deliberate  thrust.  Always 
hitherto  she  had  refrained  from  such  indulgence  be- 
fore him. 

"  Come,  Arnold,"  she  said  cruelly.  "  You  don't 
honestly  believe  that,  do  you  ?  " 

The  insolence  of  her  pose,  one  knee  over  the 
other,  the  cigarette  in  her  hand,  the  challenging  note 
in  her  voice,  hurt  him  more  than  her  previous  in- 
difference. 

"  I  don't  think  I  can  discuss  that,"  he  said,  rather 
loftily. 

Her  smile  faded.     "  Well,  you  ought  to  discuss 


A  SLEEPER  WAKES  121 

it.  You've  got  to  defend  it.  You've  got  to  prove 
it.  Don't  be  absurd,  Arnold." 

He  was  dumfounded.  It  was  so  unlike  her.  He 
had  never  seen  her  in  such  a  mood.  But  he  ascribed 
it  to  the  incomprehensible  nature  of  womankind. 
He  knew  from  the  fiction  he  had  read  that  women 
do  very  irrational  things,  frequently,  if  not  as  a  gen- 
eral rule,  saying  the  precise  opposite  of  their  mean- 
ing. He  tried  to  change  the  subject.  But  to  his 
surprise  she  refused  to  change  with  him. 

"  Don't  people  make  you  defend  your  position?  " 
she  persisted. 

11  No  one  has." 

She  was  silent  momentarily.  Then  she  returned 
to  the  attack,  almost  doggedly. 

"  Well,  then,  let  me  be  the  first.  This  church  will 
cost  .  .  ." 

"  Six  hundred  and  seventy-five  thousand  dollars," 
he  supplied  coldly.  He  regretted  that  circumstances 
had  forced  him  into  what  was  beyond  dispute  a  re- 
fined form  of  beggary.  But  he  had  realised  from 
the  start  that  success  of  this  sort  was  quite  essential 
to  eminence  in  the  clergy,  and  he  had  resolutely 
fought  down  his  distaste.  But  it  angered  him  to  be 
so  brutally  reminded  of  his  status,  particularly  by  a 
creature  whom  he  sedulously  deified.  She  seemed 
deliberately  intent  upon  leaving  the  pedestal  he  had 
constructed  for  her. 


122  THIRTY 

Again  she  was  silent,  surveying  him  with  a  smile 
that  he  thought  was  unpleasantly  cynical.  It 
seemed  also  that  there  was  a  noticeable  admixture  of 
contempt  for  him.  His  anger  gave  way  to  pain. 
He  racked  his  brain  for  an  explanation  of  her  at- 
titude. 

'  That's  a  great  deal  of  money,"  she  said  un- 
pleasantly. "  And  with  it  you're  going  to  build  a 
marble  palace  on  our  finest  street.  Do  you  know 
what  I  think,  Arnold?"  she  added,  not  unkindly. 
"  I  think  you've  gotten  art  and  religion  mixed." 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders  at  that,  not  knowing 
how  to  reply,  and  she  went  on,  her  tone  changing 
imperceptibly,  as  she  spoke,  from  a  scarcely  con- 
cealed bitterness,  to  one  that  was  almost  argumenta- 
tive. 

"  In  theory,  of  course,  the  Church  is  for  the  lame 
and  the  halt  and  blind,  the  poor  and  the  sick  and 
the  friendless,  isn't  it?" 

He  nodded,  feeling  curiously  uncomfortable.  He 
did  not  like  to  have  his  mission  in  life  subjected  to 
such  matter-of-fact  analysis,  and  besides,  it  filled 
him  with  a  vague  interrogation. 

"  Well,  what  will  this  wonderful  church  do  for 
the  poor  and  the  .  .  ." 

14  We  are  to  have  a  gymnasium  and  a  library 
and  .  .  ." 

"  What  nonsense,"   she   snapped.     "  You're  go- 


A  SLEEPER  WAKES  123 

ing  to  have  them  all  miles  from  the  nearest  poor. 
That's  an  absurd  answer." 

'Judith,    what    is    the    matter?"    he    pleaded. 
"  You  were  never  like  this  before." 

She  ignored  the  question. 

"Why  aren't  you  honest?"  she  countered. 
"  Why  don't  you  admit  that  it's  all  for  the  Wynrods, 
and  the  Wolcotts  and  the  War  ings  and  the  .  .  . 
why  don't  you  admit  that  it's  just  a  monument  to 
pride,  pure  and  simple?" 

He  was  aghast.  Also  he  was  offended,  to  the 
depths  of  his  soul.  She  had  trampled  deliberately 
on  what  was  dear  to  him,  and  subtly,  but  no  less  cer- 
tainly, she  had  made  an  implication  which  roused  in 
him  all  the  resentment  of  which  he  was  capable.  But 
the  very  thought  of  resentment  brought  with  it  the 
recollection  of  all  his  professional  training.  Arnold 
Imrie  was  perilously  close  to  a  very  human  display 
of  temper,  but  the  Reverend  Arnold  saved  him. 

"  For  some  reason,"  he  said  slowly,  in  a  man- 
ner that  to  her  savoured  of  the  pulpit,  "  you  seem 
unwilling  to  discuss  this  matter  reasonably.  I  don't 
think  you  are  fair  to  it  —  or  to  me  —  which  is  un- 
like you.  Some  other  time,  when  you  are  in  a  dif- 
ferent mood,  we  will  perhaps  talk  about  it  again." 
He  rolled  up  his  plans  and  rose.  "  I  will  bid  you 
good  evening,  Judith." 

"  Very   properly    rebuked,"    laughed   Judith   in- 


i24  THIRTY 

solently.  "  I  admire  your  self  control.  But  you're 
so  proper,  Arnold.  If  you  were  only  a  little  more 
.  .  .  oh,  well  —  but  I  haven't  been  condemning  you 

—  entirely.     It's  what  you  stand  for.     It  isn't  that 
you're   a   snob  —  but  you're   being  —  doing  —  oh, 
I'd  like  to  put  things  as  clearly  as  you  can.     I'd  make 
you  understand  me,  if  I  only  knew  how  to.     But 
I  ..." 

"  I  think  I  understand  very  well,"  he  interrupted 
sharply.  A  thought,  a  half-formulated  suspicion, 
had  flitted  across  his  mind. 

"  No,  you  don't.  You  think  I'm  poking  fun  at 
you  —  just  to  be  nasty.  It  isn't  that.  I'm  serious 

—  really.     Only  somehow  —  you  don't  impress  me 
as  much  as  you  used  to.     You  —  your  ideas  —  what 
you  stand  for  —  oh,  they  don't  seem  to  very  much 
matter.     Your  kind  of  religion  seems  to  me  —  I've 
thought  it  more  and  more  —  it  seems  to  me  a  sort 
of  hobby.     It's  just  for  Sundays." 

He  stared  at  her  aghast,  seeming  to  waver  be- 
tween grief  and  righteous  anger.  But  he  said  noth- 
ing. She  went  on  coolly. 

"  I  guess  the  trouble  with  you,  Arnold,  is  that 
you're  too  much  of  a  clergyman  —  not  enough  of  an 
ordinary  sinful  man." 

He  wavered  no  longer.  His  suspicion  crystallised 
into  certainty.  His  words  came  through  his  teeth 
as  if  shot  from  a  cannon.  The  Reverend  Arnold 


A  SLEEPER  WAKES  125 

Imrie,  for  the  first  time  in  years,  lost  his  temper, 
and  lost  it  with  a  completeness  and  animation  that 
was  magnificent.  He  turned  suddenly  and  glared  at 
Judith,  his  face  pale.  Then  he  shot  a  trembling 
finger  at  her. 

"  So,"  he  snapped.  "  Six  weeks  of  this  —  this  — 
anarchist  —  can  shatter  the  faith  of  a  lifetime. 
Such  a  faith.  A  Wynrod,  too.  .  .  .  It  is  —  I  dare 
not  say  what  it  is." 

But  he  did  dare.  He  launched  into  a  passionate 
diatribe,  which  to  Judith,  listening  patiently,  sounded 
very  much  like  a  funeral  oration  over  the  body  of  a 
notorious  scoundrel,  so  compounded  it  was  of  scorn 
and  pity  and  utter  certainty  of  ultimate  damnation 
and  complacent  self-satisfaction  that  he  was  not 
as  such.  It  was  accompanied  by  familiar  pulpit 
gesticulations,  used  so  long  that  they  had  become  un- 
conscious. As  he  talked  he  paced  back  and  forth, 
pausing  now  and  again  to  emphasise  a  point  with  a 
resounding  thump  on  his  hand.  It  was  excellent  — 
oratory.  But  all  through  she  had  the  feeling  that  it 
was  only  a  sermon,  that  the  recital  of  her  iniquities, 
so  vividly  phrased,  was  only  academic.  And  as  he 
made  his  peroration,  more  from  a  lack  of  breath 
than  a  lack  of  ideas,  she  laughed  —  mirthfully,  un- 
restrainedly. 

He  stopped  as  if  shot.  He  stared  at  her  as  if  he 
could  not  believe  his  ears. 


126  THIRTY 

"  Very  wonderful,  Arnold,"  said  Judith  lazily, 
"  but  very  absurd." 

Flouted  to  the  depths  of  his  soul,  Imrie  gathered 
up  his  papers  anew.  It  was  as  if  a  priest,  praying 
passionately  to  his  idols,  had  suddenly  raised  his 
eyes  to  find  them  with  their  thumbs  to  their  noses- 
It  was  a  ghastly  dream.  He  was  like  a  ship  that 
has  dragged  its  anchor.  He  was  drifting  in  un- 
charted waters.  The  most  dependable  of  his  flock, 
the  dearest  of  his  friends,  the  star  of  the  best  that 
was  in  him,  had  deliberately,  thoroughly,  and  with- 
out any  effort  at  concealment,  held  up  all  that  he 
held  sacred,  to  ridicule.  His  chagrin  showed  in  his 
face,  and  Judith  was  a  little  appalled  by  what  she 
had  done.  But  she  would  not  have  recalled  a  word 
or  a  glance.  She  was  sorry  to  see  his  pain,  but  for 
all  its  harshness,  she  felt  that  he  would  emerge  bet- 
ter for  the  treatment.  The  mind  needs  an  occa- 
sional physic,  no  less  than  the  body.  She  had  rocked 
the  ponderous  bulk  of  the  Reverend  Arnold  Imrie 
on  its  foundations.  If  it  settled  back  into  its  orig- 
inal place,  none  the  worse  for  the  rocking,  so  much 
the  better  for  the  foundations.  If  it  did  not,  .  .  . 
well,  the  new  position  could  not  be  less  satisfying 
than  the  old.  And  there  was  a  possibility  that  it 
might  be  better. 

She  smiled  back  at  his  frigid  bow  with  the  feeling 
of  a  mother  who  has  spanked  an  obstreperous  child. 


A  SLEEPER  WAKES  127 

"  For  the  good  of  your  soul,  Arnold,"  she  whis- 
pered under  her  breath,  "  and  the  greater  honour 
and  glory  of  God." 

For  a  long  time  after  Imrie  had  left,  she  pondered, 
trying  to  put  in  a  phrase  the  exact  idea  she  had  meant 
to  give  him.  Finally  it  came  to  her,  in  a  single  word 
—  honesty.  And  then,  as  an  inevitable  corollary, 
came  the  thought  of  the  man  who  exemplified  hon- 
esty as  did  no  one  else  she  knew.  She  thought  of 
that  deprecating  little  lift  of  his  hands  —  so  char- 
acteristic, so  significant.  With  a  smile  that  was  not 
without  tears,  she  picked  up  a  book  and  made  an 
effort  to  read. 

The  next  day  was  Sunday.  As  she  dressed  she 
tried  to  decide  whether  she  would  go  to  church  or 
not,  and  concluded  that  she  would  not.  There  were 
a  number  of  books,  she  thought  rebelliously,  which 
would  prove  more  profitable  than  Arnold's  sermon. 
So,  after  breakfast,  she  made  herself  comfortable 
by  the  window  in  the  library,  and  began  one  —  one 
of  the  many,  incidentally,  which  Good  had  sent  to 
her.  She  saw  him  infrequently,  but  his  books  came 
constantly,  and  she  often  wondered  if  he  appreciated 
the  subtle  compliment  he  paid  her  with  each  one  of 
what  she  knew  must  be  a  slender  treasure.  They 
came  spasmodically,  as  if  he  rushed  them  to  her 
when  some  fancy  was  hot  in  his  mind.  There  would 
be  a  poem,  with  characteristic  comment  all  around 


128  THIKTY 

the  margins  of  the  page,  and  an  injunction  on  the 
fly  leaf  to  "  skip  the  rest  " ;  or  a  ponderous  volume 
of  economics,  with  the  information  that  it  was  poppy- 
cock, save  for  a  paragraph  on  page  266.  Some- 
times it  would  be  only  a  pencilled  scrap  of  paper, 
with  an  amusing  anecdote  thereon,  or  just  an  il- 
luminating epigram.  He  seemed  to  wish  to  share 
with  her  the  pleasures  of  his  mind.  No  one  had 
ever  shown  that  wish  to  her  before. 

The  volume  in  her  hand  had  come  from  him  only 
a  day  or  two  before.  It  was  thick  and  heavy  and 
very  austerely  bound.  It  surprised  her  to  see  that 
it  was  new.  He  seldom  sent  her  new  books.  She 
glanced  idly  through  the  pages  before  she  happened 
to  note  the  title.  Then  her  whole  manner  changed. 
It  was  as  if  someone  had  spoken  to  her  sharply. 
The  words  burned  themselves  into  her  consciousness. 
The  small  gilt  letters  shouted  like  live  things. 
"  Proceedings  of  the  Congressional  Committee  of 
Inquiry  into  the  Conditions  Obtaining  in  the  Algoma 
Mine  Fields." 

As  she  went  on  from  the  title  to  the  contents,  her 
indolent  apathy  changed  rapidly  to  intent  immersion. 
Occasionally  her  fingers  clinched  involuntarily  and 
her  eyebrows  knitted.  Once  she  even  dropped  the 
book  and  covered  her  eyes  with  her  hands.  It  was 
a  terrible  narrative  which  unfolded  itself  before  her, 
made  more  terrible  by  the  emotionless  dispassion  of 


A  SLEEPER  WAKES  129 

the  telling.  It  was  a  story  of  bribery  and  corrup- 
tion, of  murder  begetting  murder,  with  the  stupid 
folly  of  more  murder  as  its  cure,  of  the  weakest  and 
most  helpless  paying  the  price,  of  race  hatred,  of 
greed, —  the  whole  nauseous  catalogue  of  human 
frailties  was  laid  before  her,  with  less  feeling  than 
the  Homeric  catalogue  of  ships. 

As  her  imagination  took  fire,  it  seemed  to  her  that 
the  poison  of  selfishness,  festering  in  a  far-away 
hole  in  the  ground,  had  oozed  out  and  over  the  land, 
marking  its  slimy  trail  in  legislatures,  in  churches, 
in  the  homes  of  the  highest,  until,  finally,  it  had 
reached  her  own  library.  She  grew  sick  and  faint 
as  the  pestilential  tale  expanded,  and  horror  was 
piled  upon  horror. 

The  indictment  made  one  thing  clear.  Algoma 
was  not  a  mere  morbid  growth,  to  be  extirpated  by 
force,  but  an  evidence  of  disease :  and  a  disease,  not 
of  individuals  or  of  classes,  but  of  a  civilisation. 
The  roots  of  that  disease  were  not,  as  a  circular  from 
a  mine  manager  had  said,  in  the  "  tyrannous  labour 
unions."  They  went  far  deeper  than  that.  They 
were  in  her  own  heart  and  brain.  They  were  in  the 
hearts  and  brains  of  every  man  and  woman  in  the 
world. 

It  was  the  explanation  of  the  mine  owners,  she 
knew,  that  they  fought  for  "  the  right  of  the  Ameri- 
can workman  to  work  for  whom,  what  and  when 


130  THIRTY 

he  pleased."  It  was  the  defence  of  the  miners 
that  they  fought  for  the  power  of  organisa- 
tion. 

Both  quarrels  were  just,  she  felt  with  a  terrible 
sense  of  hopelessness:  both  demanded  the  right  to 
rule.  Both  would  fight  to  the  death  for  that  right. 
It  was  folly  to  hope  for  an  equal  division  of  power. 
The  line  was  too  fine,  too  fluctuating.  One  or  the 
other  must  lose.  Talk  of  concessions,  of  improve- 
ment of  conditions,  only  obscured  the  issue.  She 
put  herself  momentarily  in  the  place  of  the  employ- 
ers, the  men  of  her  class,  the  men  she  knew:  and  her 
jaw  hardened.  Freedom  was  the  essence  of  Ameri- 
can life.  She  would  never  permit  those  who  took 
her  bread  to  dictate  what  and  how  she  should 
give  it.  She  would  fight  to  the  end  for  her  free- 
dom. 

Then,  resolutely,  she  put  herself  in  the  place  of 
those  who  demanded  that  she  yield  that  freedom. 
Unconsciously  her  fingers  clenched.  She  saw  quite 
clearly  that  "  freedom  "  took  on  a  different  meaning 
then.  It  became  "  tyranny."  These  creatures  who 
came  up  out  of  the  earth  to  burn  and  destroy,  who 
flouted  law  and  the  rights  of  property,  were  but  frag- 
ments of  mankind's  never-ending  fight  for  liberty. 
Though,  in  their  groping  progress  toward  the  goal, 
they  wallowed  in  blood  and  folly,  destroying  the 


A  SLEEPER  WAKES  131 

good  with  the  bad,  murdering  the  saints  with  the 
sinners,  none  the  less  were  they  a  part  of  the  blun- 
dering march  of  democracy. 

Algoma  was  but  an  outpost  of  a  struggle  that  was 
universal.  The  crust  of  convention  and  pretence 
had  burst  through  momentarily,  and  the  seething  caul- 
dron, full  of  the  molten  future,  was  exposed  to 
frightened  eyes. 

As  the  hours  passed,  a  new  point  of  view  took  form 
in  Judith's  mind,  and  things  which  had  always  been 
quite  clear  now  seemed  not  clear  at  all.  She  had 
never  been  more  thoroughly  muddled  in  her  life, 
but  she  realised  with  a  sense  of  satisfaction  that  the 
very  confusion  of  her  mind  indicated  the  wiping 
away  of  those  specious  answers  to  all  questions  which 
had  been  an  absolute  preventive  against  any  real 
speculation.  Her  slate  was  blank.  There  was 
room  for  new  writing. 

But  over  and  over  again  recurred  the  question, 
"  Why  don't  people  think  about  these  things  ?  "  She 
wanted  to  rush  out  and  wipe  the  slates  of  her  friends 
clear  of  their  comfortable  sophistries.  She  wanted 
to  make  them  understand  that  because  a  man 
preached  change  he  was  not  as  dangerous  as  the 
man  who  preached  inaction  when  there  was  a  vol- 
cano under  their  feet.  Why  must  they  always  de- 
stroy their  Cassandras? 


i32  THIRTY 

She  was  at  a  pitch  of  exaltation  which  she  had 
seldom  attained  before  when  John  Baker,  the  most 
phlegmatic  person  she  knew,  was  announced. 

He  greeted  her  seriously,  as  he  greeted  everyone, 
and  accomplished  the  conversational  preliminaries 
in  the  fewest  possible  words.  Then  he  made  clear 
the  purpose  of  his  visit. 

"  I  have  bad  news  for  you,"  he  said  calmly. 
'Yes?"     Judith's  manner  was  as  placid  as  his 
own,  though  a  thousand  questions  flashed  across  her 
mind. 

He  cleared  his  throat.  "  It  is  a  fact  that  even  the 
shrewdest  men  make  bad  investments  —  indefensible 
investments,"  he  said  profoundly,  as  if  the  discovery 
were  his  own. 

"  Oh.  .  .  ."  Her  fears  vanished.  He  was  the 
harbinger  only  of  financial  trouble. 

'  Your  father,"  he  went  on  without  haste,  "  was 
an  extraordinarily  shrewd  man.     But  even  he  .  .  ." 
'  .  .  .  made  bad  investments?" 

"  Exactly." 

'  Well  .  .  .  tell  me  the  worst  —  I  am  brave,"  she 
laughed. 

"  For  some  reason,  impossible  to  explain,  he  be- 
came possessed  of  a  majority  of  the  bonds  of  The 
Dispatch.  It  is  a  curious  thing.  He  must  have 
known  that  a  newspaper  presents  the  worst  possible 


A  SLEEPER  WAKES  133 

field  for  inactive  investment.  No  property  changes 
more  rapidly  in  transition  from  a  going  condition 
to  a  forced  sale." 

"  What  about  the  bonds?  " 

"  That  is  my  bad  news.  The  Dispatch  has  not 
been  financially  successful  for  years.  The  present 
owners  have  resolved  to  give  up  the  losing  struggle.'* 

"  I  see.     But  where  does  that  affect  me?  " 

"  You  hold  their  bonds.  They  intend  to  default 
on  the  payment  of  further  interest  —  and,  of  course, 
principal  as  well." 

"  Oh.  .  .  ."  Judith  felt  that  she  should  evidence 
dismay  at  least  sufficient  to  match  Baker's  gravity. 
But  there  were  too  many  unpleasant  things  in  the 
world  for  her  to  furrow  her  brow  over  the  loss  of  a 
few  thousands  from  her  annual  income.  An  ad- 
mission of  that,  she  knew,  however,  would  shock 
him:  so  she  contented  herself  with  a  noncommittal 
monosyllable. 

'  You  will  lose  heavily,"  he  continued.  "  The 
bonds  constitute  a  first  lien  on  the  property,  to  be 
sure,  but  most  of  the  property  consists  of  good-will, 
which  is  not  very  good,  so  I'm  told.  Really  all 
you  can  hope  for  is  the  proceeds  from  the  sale  of  the 
machinery  and  furniture.  They'll  sell  for  only  a 
fraction  of  their  value,  too.  Really,  it's  quite  too 
bad."  The  genuine  regret  in  his  voice  almost  made 


134  THIRTY 

her  smile.  It  was  so  incongruous  that  he,  who  lost 
nothing,  should  be  so  much  more  affected  than  she, 
who  lost  everything. 

;'  What  will  become  of  the  paper?  "  she  asked. 

"  Following  foreclosure  proceedings  a  receiver 
will  be  appointed,  and  in  the  course  of  time  it  will 
be  sold  at  auction  —  that  is,  a  sale  will  be  held." 

"  But  you  don't  think  anyone  will  buy  it?  " 

"  It  is  hardly  likely." 

;'  Then  the  paper  will  be  on  my  hands?  " 

'  Yes  —  on  yours  and  on  those  of  the  other  bond- 
holders," he  admitted  regretfully. 

"  A  nice  white  elephant !  "  she  cried. 

His  face  brightened  ever  so  slightly.  "  There's 
just  a  bare  possibility  that  we  can  sell  it.  Even  if 
we  got  only  a  fraction  of  its  worth  it  would  be  bet- 
ter than  nothing  at  all." 

"  Of  course,"  she  agreed.  Her  manner  seemed 
to  indicate  that  her  thoughts  were  far  away. 

'  There  is  a  group  of  men,"  he  continued, 
"  wealthy  men,  who  have  talked  more  or  less  seri- 
ously of  purchasing  a  newspaper  that  would  give 
voice  to  the  conservative  element.  They  feel  that 
they  would  be  doing  a  public  service  in  offsetting  the 
demagoguery  and  sensationalism  of  most  of  the 
popular  press.  I  don't  know  how  serious  they  are, 
or  how  much  they  are  prepared  to  spend.  It's  just 
a  possibility.  Still  .  .  ." 


A  SLEEPER  WAKES  135 

"  Who  are  these  men?  "  asked  Judith  sharply. 

"  Well,  there's  Parker  Ralston,  and  Anderson 
LeGore,  and  Henry  Waring  and  .  .  ." 

"  I  see."  There  was  a  curious  note  in  Judith's 
voice  which  Baker  was  unable  to  explain,  and  she 
seemed  to  stare  at  something  beyond  and  behind 
him.  The  suggestion  of  someone  else  in  the  room 
was  so  strong  that  he  turned  around.  But  all  he 
saw  was  a  pile  of  books  on  a  chair.  They  were  too 
far  away  for  him  to  note  that  one  of  them  was 
severely  labelled  "  Proceedings  of  the  Congressional 
Committee  of  Inquiry  into  the  Conditions  Obtaining 
in  the  Algoma  Mine  Fields." 

"  If  I  was  unwilling  to  sell  out  to  those  men,"  she 
said  suddenly,  "  what  then?  " 

"  You  couldn't  refuse.  The  sale  would  be  held 
by  the  receiver,  for  the  benefit  of  the  other  bond- 
holders as  well  as  yourself.  Besides,  why  should 
you  refuse  even  two  cents  on  the  dollar,  when  refusal 
would  mean  nothing?  " 

She  ignored  his  question.  "  Suppose  I  wanted  to 
get  possession  of  the  paper  myself?" 

"  What  in  the  world  would  you  want  it  for?  " 

"  Well,  just  for  fun,  let's  suppose  I  did  want  it. 
How  could  I  get  it?" 

"  You  could  purchase  the  other  bonds,  and  at  the 
termination  of  the  receivership  the  paper  would  re- 
vert to  you,  unless  you  chose  to  sell." 


136  THIRTY 

"  How  long  would  that  take?  " 

"  About  eighteen  months." 

"  And  if  I  wanted  it  immediately?  " 

"What  are  you  talking  about,  my  dear  child?" 

"  Never  mind  that,"  she  cried  impatiently,  "  we're 
just  supposing,  you  know.  The  point  is,  how  could 
I  get  it  right  away  ?  " 

"  Well,  you  might  purchase  the  paper  from  the 
present  owners  for  a  nominal  sum  —  merely  assume 
their  obligations.  That  would  mean  that  if  you 
wanted  to  keep  it  you'd  have  to  meet  the  interest 
on  the  bonds  and  ultimately,  the  principal  too." 

She  was  thoughtful  for  a  moment,  her  chin  on  her 
hand.  Then  her  question  came  sharply.  "  What 
would  that  cost  ?  " 

"The  bonds?" 

"  No,  immediate  possession." 

"  That  depends.     It's  hard  to  say,  offhand." 

"Well,  approximately?" 

"  Oh,  comparatively  little.  Just  a  nominal  sum. 
It's  really  nothing  more  than  a  consideration  to  make 
the  transaction  legal.  The  expense  wouldn't  come 
until  later.  But  why,  my  dear  girl  .  .  ." 

"  This  is  all  just  supposing,  you  know,"  she  inter- 
rupted with  a  smile. 

"  Very  well,  just  supposing  —  but  why  should  you 
even  suppose  such  a  plan?  Why  should  you  want 


A  SLEEPER  WAKES  137 

to  take  over  a  proposition  which  has  been  demon- 
strably  unprofitable,  even  in  skilled  hands?" 

"  How  about  Mr.  Waring,  and  this  man  Ralston, 
and  Anderson  LeGore?  " 

"  But  they're  very  wealthy." 

"  Yes,  but  so  am  I  wealthy,"  she  said  ingenuously. 

He  was  momentarily  nonplussed.  "  But  they 
would  manage  it  for  a  purpose,  rather  than  for 
profit,"  he  cried. 

"  Well,  suppose  I  wanted  to  manage  it  for  a  pur- 
pose rather  than  for  profit?  " 

Baker  rose  and  put  his  hand  on  her  shoulder,  as  a 
suspicion  took  form  in  his  mind.  "  Judith  —  you're 
not  .  .  .  serious?  " 

She  tossed  her  head  and  smiled  enigmatically. 
"And  if  I  were?" 

He  had  no  reply  ready  for  that  elfish  question,  so 
obviously,  it  seemed  to  him,  designed  for  the  purpose 
of  arousing  him  to  argument.  And  when  he  was 
silent,  that  guess  seemed  to  be  confirmed,  for  Judith's 
momentary  animation  faded.  She  put  her  question 
quite  indifferently. 

"  I  suppose  there's  nothing  for  me  to  do,  is 
there?" 

"  Oh,  no.  I  just  dropped  in  to  prepare  you  for 
anything  you  might  read  and  wonder  about.  Things 
will  take  their  course.  Just  don't  worry." 


i38  THIRTY 

Judith  concealed  a  smile  as  she  assured  him  that 
she  would  not.  "  When  will  they  officially  de- 
fault? "  she  asked. 

"  Oh,  in  a  week  or  two." 

"  Well,  let's  hope  for  the  best." 

"  Yes,  I  have  great  hopes  of  this  Waring-LeGore- 
Ralston  combination.  It  is  quite  possible  that  some- 
thing may  come  of  it.  But  don't  be  too  sanguine," 
he  added,  as  if  fearful  that  he  had  raised  her  hopes 
unduly. 

Judith  wandered  about  restlessly  after  he  left  her. 
John  Baker  would  have  been  shocked  indeed  had  he 
known  the  thoughts  coursing  in  her  brain.  But  she 
was  not  permitted  even  to  muse  for  very  long. 

In  a  few  moments  Roger  came  in,  looking  very 
tired  and  depressed.  But  at  her  solicitous  inquiries 
he  was  noncommittal.  He  picked  up  a  newspaper 
and  read  for  a  moment,  listlessly.  Then  he  threw  it 
down. 

'  Where  were  you  last  night?  "  she  inquired,  with 
a  suspicion  born  of  long  experience. 

"  Molly's,"  he  replied  shortly. 

"That  all?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Why  so  solemn,  then?  " 

He  lit  a  cigarette  and  flicked  the  match  deftly  into 
the  fireplace.  "  Oh,  we  had  it  out,  and  she  —  said 
things." 


A  SLEEPER  WAKES  139 

"What  things?" 

"  The  same  line  you  get  off.  About  my  not  doing 
anything  —  and  all  that." 

"  About  not  working,  you  mean?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Well  —  you  have  been  a  little  slow  at  getting 
started,  haven't  you?  " 

He  fired  up  hotly  at  that. 

"And  what  if  I  have?  It  hasn't  been  for  lack 
of  trying,  let  me  tell  you.  I've  been  doing  my  best 
to  get  a  job  ever  since  I  said  I  would." 

"  And  you  can't  get  one  ?  "  Judith  smiled  in- 
credulously. 

"  No.  Oh,  of  course  there's  plenty  of  chance  to 
invest  some  money  and  be  treasurer  and  all  that,  but 
I  mean  a  regular  job.  I've  tried  everywhere."  He 
hung  his  head  dejectedly. 

"  What  seems  to  be  the  trouble?  " 
4  Those  who  know  me  know  me  too  well.     And 
those  who  don't  know  me  —  don't  know  me,"  he 
answered    cryptically.     "  And    I    don't   know   any- 
thing, myself." 

"  I'm  so  sorry,"  she  said  helplessly. 

"  How  do  you  suppose."  He  switched  the  topic 
suddenly.  "  How  do  you  suppose  a  chap  without 
any  pull  or  any  friends  —  a  fellow  like  Good,  for 
instance  —  gets  jobs  ?  " 

Before  the  echo  of  Roger's  words  had  died  from 


i4o  THIRTY 

the  air,  a  maid  stood  in  the  doorway,  announcing 
the  presence  of  Good  himself. 

;' Why  not  ask  him?"  said  Judith  obviously. 
And  when  the  tall  man  came  in,  still  dressed  in  his 
familiarly  shabby  brown  suit,  Roger  put  the  ques- 
tion. 

"  How  did  I  get  my  first  job,"  he  repeated  slowly, 
with  a  twinkle  in  his  eye.  "Well  —  I  asked  for 
one  —  and  I  kept  on  asking  for  one  until  I  got  it." 

"  But  that's  just  what  I've  done,"  protested  Roger. 

''  Perhaps  you're  more  particular  than  I  was." 

"  I'm  not  a  bit  particular,"  cried  the  younger  man 
earnestly.  "  I'd  do  anything.  I've  gotten  over  be- 
ing particular." 

"  No,  my  boy,  you  haven't,"  smiled  Good.  Then 
a  faint  shadow  crossed  his  face,  and  he  added  softly, 
"  You've  never  been  hungry." 

Judith  hoped  that  he  would  amplify  the  intima- 
tion. But  as  so  often  happened,  he  began  a  theme 
only  to  dismiss  it.  His  tone  changed  and  he  turned 
briskly  to  her. 

;t  Well,  Miss  Wynrod,  why  don't  you  do  some- 
thing to  help  the  lad?" 

"  Me  ?  "  she  echoed  in  surprise.  "  What  can  I 
do?" 

;t  Would  you  be  willing  to  spend  some  money  — 
quite  a  large  sum,  too,  as  such  things  go  ?  Not  very 
large  for  you,  though,"  he  added  with  the  reflective 


A  SLEEPER  WAKES  141 

candour  that  never  failed  to  astonish  and  delight  her. 
"  Would  you  invest  something  —  to  see  him  well 
started  in  an  enterprise  of  the  utmost  —  value?  " 

Roger's  curiosity  was  plain  on  his  face.  But  Good 
seemed  only  to  watch  Judith  narrowly.  She  looked 
wonderingly  up  at  him,  as  he  stood,  half-smiling,  be- 
fore her. 

"  Have  you  a  definite  opening?" 

"  Perhaps,"  he  said  quizzically. 

"On  what  does  it  depend?"  she  asked,  fencing 
with  him. 

"On  you!" 

"  Oh,  please  don't  be  absurd,"  she  cried,  as  her 
interest  got  the  better  of  her.  "  Do  tell  me  what 
this  is  all  about." 

"  And  where  do  I  figure?  "  asked  Roger,  with  a 
touch  of  annoyance  in  his  voice.  "  As  far  as  I  can 
see  you're  talking  to  Judith.  Where  do  I  get  off?  " 

"  It  concerns  her  as  much  as  it  does  you,"  said 
Good  shortly,  his  smile  fading  and  the  vertical  lines 
deepening  between  his  eyes,  a  plain  sign  to  Judith 
that  he  was  far  from  badinage.  "  In  fact,"  he 
added  seriously,  "  I  think  it  concerns  her  even  more." 
'  Then  perhaps  my  absence  would  be  preferable 
to  my  company?"  demanded  Roger  with  consider- 
able asperity.  Good's  reply  surprised  both  him  and 
his  sister. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  I  think  it  would.    If  you'll  leave 


142  THIRTY 

us  for  a  bit,  I'll  tell  your  sister  what's  on  my  mind. 
Then,  if  she  likes,  she  can  tell  you." 

Roger  jumped  to  his  feet.  "  Well,"  he  cried, 
"  it  strikes  me  that  you're  disposing  of  me  pretty 
easily.  I'm  of  age,  you  know." 

"  If  you  say  much  more,"  said  Good  mildly,  "  I'll 
be  tempted  to  clear  out  and  try  an  interview  with 
your  sister  some  other  time.  Now  —  if  you  please." 

As  soon  as  the  sound  of  Roger's  grumbling  had 
died  away,  Good  burst  abruptly  into  speech. 

"  Miss  Wynrod,"  he  said  curtly,  "  before  I  put  my 
proposition  to  you,  I  want  to  know  whether  you  are 
prepared  to  spend  some  money  for  that  boy's  fu- 
ture —  not  to  speak  of  your  own?  " 

"How  much  money?"  she  asked,  principally  to 
regain  the  poise  that  his  inexplicable  earnestness  had 
driven  from  her. 

"  A  good  deal." 

She  smiled  faintly.  Would  she  spend  "  a  good 
deal"  for  Roger?  The  thought  almost  made  her 
laugh  aloud.  But  she  controlled  herself,  and  her 
reply  was  almost  indifferent  in  tone. 

"  Yes  —  if  I  thought  the  plan  promised  well." 

"  I  knew  it,  of  course,"  cried  Good.  Then  he 
drew  his  chair  closer  to  hers,  and  emphasising  his 
points  with  his  long  forefinger  against  the  palm  of 
his  hand,  began. 

"  To  begin  with,  Miss  Wynrod,  you  know  how  I 


A  SLEEPER  WAKES  143 

feel  toward  the  press.  We've  talked  it  over  often. 
You  know  I  believe  that  to  turn  this  old  world  over 
and  set  it  on  its  feet  where  it  belongs,  all  clean  and 
sound  and  sweet,  the  first  thing  we've  got  to  have  is 
truth  —  truth,  truth,  always  truth  and  more  truth  — 
nothing  whatever  but  truth,  nothing  evaded  or  con- 
cealed. In  a  word,  we've  got  to  have  a  free  and 
a  candid  press.  You  understand  all  that,  don't 
you?" 

His  eyes  clouded  and  a  look  of  anxiety  came  into 
them.  But  it  was  dispelled  at  her  answer. 

"  I'm  not  deaf,  Mr.  Good." 

"  Well  .  .  ."  He  stopped  and  scratched  his 
head  as  if  something  eluded  him.  "  I'm  so  full  of  it 
all  —  all  the  time  —  that  I  don't  know  where  to  be- 
gin. It's  my  great  dream.  Every  dreamer  has  one 
particular  dream.  This  is  mine.  I've  been  on  the 
hunt  for  my  chance.  Now  when  it  seems  to  be  here 
I  don't  know  how  to  seize  it.  I'm  afraid  of  saying 
the  wrong  thing  and  spoiling  it  all.  For  years  I've 
been  looking  for  a  millionaire  —  some  one  to  endow 
my  dream.  You're  the  one  I've  picked.  You  un- 
derstand, I  think.  I  don't  seem  so  crazy  to  you. 
And  you've  got  the  stuff  in  you  to  stand  the  gaff 
when  things  go  hard.  It's  not  so  hard  to  get  money, 
but  sympathy  .  .  .  faith  .  .  .  people  stop  when 
the  light  goes  out.  You're  different.  You'd  go  on. 
You  ...  do  you  follow  me  ?  " 


144  THIRTY 

He  stopped  and  surveyed  her  anxiously.  The 
deep  creases  over  his  nose,  his  short  sentences,  the 
sharp  nervous  movements  of  his  hands,  all  betrayed 
the  stress  under  which  he  spoke.  It  would  disap- 
point him,  perhaps  stop  him  altogether,  if  she  said 
that  she  did  not  follow.  But  as  she  assured  him 
that  she  did,  she  wondered  how  much  of  his  meaning 
she  really  missed.  Nevertheless  her  manner  seemed 
to  satisfy  him. 

"  If  I  went  to  you  and  asked  for  money  to  build  a 
hospital  or  a  school,  or  a  church  — " 

She  looked  up  sharply  at  that.  But  it  was  plain 
that  there  was  no  covert  meaning  in  his  words.  He 
went  on  intently. 

"  You'd  think  that  understandable  enough. 
You'd  probably  hand  it  over.  But,  Miss  Wynrod,  I 
want  your  money  for  something  of  greater  value  to 
society  than  all  the  churches  and  hospitals  put  to- 
gether. I  want  you  to  put  your  money  to  work 
clearing  up  this  muddled  old  world  of  ours  by  bring- 
ing sunshine  and  oxygen  and  hope  and  understanding 
into  men's  minds.  I  want  you  —  how  can  I  possibly 
make  clear  to  you  how  much  I  want  it  —  I  want  you 
to  —  to  —  buy  ...  a  newspaper!  " 

He  stopped  and  waited  for  her  to  speak.  But 
she  could  only  echo  the  word  stupidly.  Then  she 
managed  to  convey  to  him  that  she  wanted  him  to  go 
on.  He  did,  but  his  voice  seemed  to  have  lost  some- 


A  SLEEPER  WAKES  145 

thing  of  its  intensity,  and  his  words  came  with  more 
confidence. 

"  Yes.  I've  told  you  so  indirectly  many  times. 
But  I  never  made  it  personal,  partly  because  I  hated 
to  put  my  hopes  to  the  test,  partly  because  there 
seemed  no  opening.  Now  I  have  the  opening.  The 
divinity  that  shapes  our  ends  is  doing  its  best  for  me, 
it  seems.  I  learned  yesterday  that  The  Dispatch 
would  sell  out  at  a  ridiculous  figure.  That  made  me 
screw  my  courage  up  to  the  testing  point.  I  came 
up  this  morning  to  tell  you  about  it.  Then  your 
brother  —  why,  it  couldn't  have  wTorked  out  better 
for  me !  The  opportunity  his  future  offers  as  a 
lever  to  move  you  .  .  .  well,  Miss  Wynrod,  what 
do  you  think?  " 

She  laughed  unaffectedly  at  that. 

"What  do  I  think?  Heavens.  How  can  I 
think.  You  fire  an  entirely  novel  idea  at  me  and 
expect  me  to  answer  at  once.  You've  stunned  me." 

"  But  it's  not  new,"  cried  Good.  "  We've  talked 
the  idea  of  this  over  a  hundred  times." 

;t  The  oldest  thing  in  the  world  is  new  when  it's 
applied  to  one's  self  for  the  first  time,"  said  Judith 
sententiously. 

"  Still,  it  isn't  really  new,  is  it?  "  he  persisted. 

ic  Well  —  not  entirely,"  she  admitted. 

"  Of  course  not.  It's  Roger's  part  in  it  that's 
new.  That  bewilders  you,  of  course." 


146  THIRTY 

'  What  is  his  part?  "  she  interrupted. 

"  Running  a  newspaper  is  exactly  like  running  any 
other  kind  of  a  business  —  only  harder.  He'd  be 
the  manager  —  with  assistance  of  course  —  with  a 
chance  to  make  all  out  of  himself  that  he  can.  He'd 
be  your  representative." 

"  I  see,"  she  said  thoughtfully.  "  That  seems  to 
dispose  of  him.  Now  where  does  Brent  Good  fit 
into  the  scheme  of  things?  " 

'Wherever  he  fits.  Give  him  $15  a  week 
and  he'd  fit  anywhere.  That  would  be  enough  of 
a  raise  over  his  present  honorarium  to  justify  him  in 
changing." 

'  You're  joking,"  she  cried. 

"About  the  salary?  Not  a  bit.  It's  enough. 
Besides,  it  leaves  room  for  promotion.  As  a  matter 
of  fact  I've  been  told  by  potential  employers  that 
it  was  too  much." 

Good  was  silent  then,  and  Judith  also,  each  wait- 
ing for  the  other  to  speak.  But  it  happened  that  the 
silence  was  finally  broken  by  Roger,  whose  impa- 
tience had  become  too  much  to  bear  any  longer. 

"  Well,"  he  said  from  the  doorway,  with  a  most 
elaborate  attempt  at  casuality.  "  Is  the  great  mys- 
tery about  to  be  revealed?  " 

Good  looked  inquiringly  at  Judith,  and  she  mo- 
tioned to  Roger. 

"  Sit    down,    Roger,"    she    said    quietly.     "  Mr. 


A  SLEEPER  WAKES  147 

Good  has  a  plan  to  offer."  Then  she  hesitated  mo- 
mentarily. "  If  the  idea  appeals  to  you  —  I  am  pre- 
pared to  back  you." 

Good  turned  a  startled  but  grateful  gaze  upon  her. 
But  she  affected  not  to  see  him.  He  turned  quickly 
to  Roger.  Eloquently  and  passionately  he  described 
the  opportunity  he  offered.  Judith,  entranced  in 
spite  of  herself,  followed  him  intently,  while  Roger, 
from  derision,  went  successively  into  interest,  to  close 
attention,  and  finally  to  unbounded  enthusiasm. 
Judith  divined  the  subtle  flattery  with  which  Good 
concealed  his  profounder  motives:  to  the  young  man 
he  was  only  opening  up  an  alluring  vista  of  personal 
glory. 

"  Well,  Roger,"  said  Good  finally,  "  what's  your 
verdict?" 

Roger  turned  to  his  sister,  his  eyes  shining.  "  It's 
great !  "  he  whispered.  "  Will  you  go  through  with 
it,  sis?" 

Judith  heard  him  only  vaguely.  Her  thoughts, 
strangely  enough,  were  with  Imrie  and  his  church. 
But  she  nodded  affirmatively.  She  seemed  only  to 
be  granting  another  of  the  endless  string  of  permis- 
sions that  had  marked  her  maternal  care  of  him 
through  the  years.  And  the  way  in  which  he  ran 
to  her  and  threw  his  arms  about  her  and  hugged  her, 
was  very  familiar.  His  part  in  it  all  seemed  curi- 
ously unreal.  But  Good's  calm  voice  brought  home 


148  THIRTY 

to  her  the  magnitude  of  the  step  upon  which  she  was 
so  blithely  deciding. 

"  One  thing,  Miss  Wynrod.  The  Dispatch  can 
be  bought  for  very  little.  But  the  kind  of  paper  you 
are  going  to  make  out  of  it  won't  make  much  money 
—  not  for  a  while.  It  may  cost  —  quite  a  little. 
Do  you  understand?"  he  added  sharply,  his  eyes 
seeming  to  speak  to  her  alone. 

She  caught  their  message.  "  Yes,"  she  said 
calmly;  "  I  understand  perfectly." 

Good  rose,  and  pulled  a  pair  of  well-worn  gloves 
from  his  pocket. 

"  You'll  have  to  act  quickly." 

"Why?" 

"  There's  a  syndicate  of  reactionaries  ready  to 
take  it,  I'm  told.  Talk  it  over,  you  two  —  discuss 
the  bad  parts  mostly.  I'll  call  you  up  in  the  morn- 
ing. Then,  if  you  want  to  go  through  it,  get  your 
lawyer  and  we'll  settle  it  up.  Good-bye." 

"  Oh,  wait,"  cried  Roger.  "  There's  a  million 
questions  I  want  to  ask  you.." 

"  No.  You  two  talk  it  over.  I'm  out  of  it  — 
till  to-morrow."  And  with  that  he  seized  his  hat, 
and  in  a  moment  was  striding  down  the  avenue. 
Judith  watched  him  from  the  window  until  he  was 
out  of  sight.  Then  she  turned  to  Roger. 

"  Does  it  really  appeal  to  you,  lad?"  she  asked 
wistfully. 


A  SLEEPER  WAKES  149 

"  It  certainly  does,"  he  cried  with  enthusiasm. 
"  And  besides  I  don't  see  how  I'll  ever  get  into 
business  unless  I  buy  my  way  in.  This  is  a  chance  in 
a  million.  There's  money  in  newspapers.  Look  at 
The  Press.  Why,  you  couldn't  buy  its  stock  —  not 
at  any  price." 

Tears  forced  themselves  into  Judith's  eyes.  She 
wondered  if  she  ought  to  let  Roger  deceive  himself. 
She  knew  all  too  clearly  that  Good's  ambitions  lay 
not  along  the  route  of  money.  She  wondered  fear- 
fully if  he  could  transform  Roger's  ideals  from  the 
conventional  worship  of  profit-taking  to  something 
less  substantial  and  less  understood.  But  as  she 
thought  what  he  had  already  accomplished  with  the 
boy,  her  fears  vanished,  giving  place  to  a  feeling  of 
awe.  What  was  the  secret  of  this  man's  fascination, 
that  he  could  force  her  to  yield  implicit  faith  to  his 
lightest  word?  What  caused  him  to  be  able,  not 
merely  to  convert  her  to  the  most  amazing  ideas, 
but  actually  to  make  her  join  him  in  the  propaganda? 
She  had  a  premonition  of  what  John  Baker  would 
say  when  she  told  him  her  decision.  Then  the  recol- 
lection of  the  salary  which  Good  had  proposed  for 
himself  came  to  her,  and  she  smiled. 

All  that  day  and  until  far  into  the  night,  she  and 
Roger  discussed  the  great  idea.  Or  rather,  Roger 
talked  and  planned  and  dreamed,  and  she  listened. 
And  as  she  listened  to  his  enthusiasm,  the  first  of 


150  THIRTY 

his  life  over  anything  really  worth  while,  her  reso- 
lution crystallised.  If  she  could  give  money  toward 
the  building  of  a  church  in  which  her  interest  was 
undeniably  decreasing,  she  could  give  money  toward 
the  building  of  her  brother  into  manhood.  And 
she  was  far  from  overlooking  the  opportunity  for 
herself.  She  had  never  heard  of  a  woman  going 
into  the  publishing  of  newspapers,  but  Good's  enthu- 
siasm for  the  high  ends  to  be  attained  had  fired  her 
more  than  she  realised,  and  as  the  hours  passed,  she 
flamed  higher  with  real  enthusiasm  for  what  had,  at 
first  thought,  seemed  the  wildest  of  wild  projects. 
Before  she  retired,  her  mind  was  quite  made  up. 
She,  idler  and  parasite,  would  play  a  part  in  the 
world  of  affairs. 

The  next  morning,  calm  but  determined,  and 
speaking  her  thoughts  in  few  words,  she  was  in 
John  Baker's  office.  Briefly  and  clearly,  she  made 
known  to  him  the  resolution  she  had  taken.  His 
jaw  dropped  as  he  listened,  and  his  usual  immobility 
of  countenance  quite  deserted  him.  He  tried  to 
smile. 

"So  you  want  to  buy  it,  eh?"  To  conceal  his 
amazement,  he  walked  to  the  window.  "  Why  don't 
you  throw  your  money  out  here  ?  "  he  asked.  '  You 
can  lose  it  that  way  with  less  trouble." 

Judith  had  no  answering  smile.  Her  eyes  nar- 
rowed and  her  lips  formed  a  little  straighter  line. 


A  SLEEPER  WAKES  151 

"Will  you  draw  up  the  papers  for  me,  John? 
I've  phoned  Mr.  Good,  and  he  will  be  here  any  min- 
ute." 

"  Mr.  Good,  eh?  You  have  a  good  deal  of  faith 
in  him,  haven't  you  ?  So  he's  the  nigger  in  the  pile, 
is  he?" 

"  Have  you  any  reason  not  to  have  faith  in  him?  " 
Baker  was  silent,  and  a  curious  expression,  which  she 
could  not  fathom,  formed  on  his  face. 

"  No,"  he  murmured  finally,  with  what  seemed 
like  an  effort,  "  I  have  not." 

"  Personally  I  have  the  utmost  confidence  in  him," 
said  Judith  with  a  shortness  which  brooked  no  fur- 
ther discussion  of  the  topic.  Baker  looked  at  her 
thoughtfully  for  a  moment.  Then  he  pressed  a 
button  on  his  desk. 

"  It's  your  funeral,  Judith.  I  never  thought  you 
were  a  fool  .  .  ." 

"  Before?"  she  interrupted,  with  her  first  smile. 

It  was  significant  that  he  made  no  reply. 

In  due  course  Good  arrived,  accompanied  by  an- 
other lawyer,  a  tall,  thin  man,  with  a  prodigious 
moustache,  who  said  absolutely  nothing  that  was  in- 
telligible to  her.  While  he  and  Baker  were  con- 
ferring, Good  drew  her  into  an  ante-room  and  closed 
the  door. 

He  was  greatly  agitated,  and  the  perspiration  kept 
coming  out  on  his  forehead  in  spite  of  his  constant 


1 52  THIRTY 

efforts  to  wipe  it  away.  He  presented  a  curious 
contrast  to  her  perfect  calm. 

"  Miss  Wynrod  —  before  we  go  into  this  thing  — 
you  must  know  what  it  means  —  absolutely.  I 
mustn't  hide  anything." 

"  Don't  I  know  all?"  She  lifted  her  eyebrows. 
She  smiled  inwardly  as  she  thought  how  much  more 
she  knew  about  it  than  Good  did. 

He  paced  nervously  in  front  of  her.  "  I  hope  so. 
I  don't  know.  But  you  must." 

"What  is  lacking?" 

"  It's  going  to  cost  —  more  than  the  purchase 
price  — " 

"  I  know  that." 

"  It's  going  to  cost  more  than  you  guess  —  incal- 
culably more." 

"  I  don't  understand." 

"  I  know  —  but  you  must.  We're  going  to  dedi- 
cate this  paper  to  one  thing  —  the  truth.  Some- 
times the  truth  isn't  easy  to  tell.  The  telling  of  it 
may  bring  you  —  it  may  —  oh,  don't  you  see  — 
those  closest  to  you  —  dearest  to  you  —  they  may 
be  the  least  able  to  stand  the  truth.  You  don't  know 
what  it  means.  You  can't.  Are  you  ready  to  for- 
sake—  all?  ...  I  mean  that  literally,  Miss  Wyn- 
rod." She  had  never  seen  him  so  utterly  excited,  so 
moved  to  the  depths.  "  Are  you  ready  to  give  up 
everything  that  has  been  dear  to  you  in  the  days  that 


A  SLEEPER  WAKES  153 

are  gone,  for  this  crazy  ideal?  For  if  you  are  not," 
he  finished  with  a  solemnity  that  brought  a  queer 
lump  to  her  throat,  "  I  had  much  rather  that  you 
stopped  before  you  began." 

She  rose  and  faced  him,  and  her  eyes  looked  stead- 
ily into  his.  They  gleamed  dull  grey,  like  the  hulls 
of  battleships  on  the  fighting  line,  and  her  chin  was 
grimly  firm.  The  stock  from  which  she  sprang  had 
been  a  pioneering  stock,  and  none  who  bore  the  name 
of  Wynrod,  in  days  when  life  was  simple  but  hard, 
had  turned  back  when  once  their  hands  were  on  the 
plough.  Their  sturdy  courage  was  in  her  blood,  and 
the  echo  of  that  Hugh  Wynrod  who  had  defied  his 
King  and  left  all  that  life  had  held  dear  for  him,  to 
seek  a  new  life  in  a  new  world,  for  the  sake  of  an 
ideal,  sounded  in  her  vibrant  voice. 

"  I  understand,  Mr.  Good.  I  am  ready  —  for 
anything." 

"  It  means  —  fight  —  always,"  he  said  softly. 

"I  have  played  always.     I  want  —  fight." 

"  Then  shake,"  he  cried.  "  We'll  go  through  — 
to  the  end  I  " 

"  To  the  end,"  she  echoed,  as  she  seized  his  out- 
stretched hand.  Then  the  tension  snapped  suddenly. 

"  How  absurd,"  she  laughed.  "  We're  behaving 
like  pirates  in  a  melodrama.  Let's  go  in  the  other 
room  and  be  rational  people." 

But  Good  did  not  even  attempt  to  smile. 


CHAPTER  VI 

DEAD  IDOLS 

ARNOLD  IMRIE  was  of  clear  Scotch  descent.  And 
among  his  forebears  had  been  those  grim  Covenan- 
ters to  whom  compromise  was  anathema.  He  had 
a  strong  body  and  a  strong  intellect,  but  stronger 
than  both  combined  was  the  resistless  ovenord  he 
called  his  conscience.  Sydney  Smith's  aspersions 
upon  the  impenetrability  of  the  Scotch  skull  are  well 
known,  though  their  justice  may  be  questioned.  But 
it  is  indisputable  that  nothing  short  of  the  heroic 
measures  he  recommended  would  suffice  to  separate 
Imrie  from  a  resolve,  once  firmly  made.  Being  hu- 
man, he  saw  many  things  dimly,  and  some  quite 
falsely.  But  as  he  saw  he  lived,  and  there  was  no 
power  in  the  earth  or  out  of  it  to  make  him  evade 
or  equivocate.  Sometimes  this  sturdy  candour  made 
him  noble:  sometimes  it  made  him  tiresome:  and 
once  in  a  way  it  merely  made  him  ridiculous.  But 
though  for  long  periods  it  might  remain  dormant,  it 
was  none  the  less  the  prime  impetus  in  his  life. 

Judith's  derision,  her  more  or  less  obvious  con- 
tempt, had  wounded  him  more  than  he  would  have 
believed  possible;  and  her  touch,  though  light,  had 

iS4 


DEAD  IDOLS  155 

found  spots  that  were  sorer  than  he  had  suspected. 
Her  calm  disdain  was  like  an  acid,  dissolving  away 
the  crust  of  unimportant  occupation  and  meticulous 
conformity  which  had  protected  his  ideals  from  the 
corruptive  action  of  reality.  He  shivered,  figura- 
tively, at  the  revelation. 

One  of  her  mordant  phrases  was  poignantly  clear. 
Again  and  again  it  recurred  to  him,  always  with  a 
question  attached.  He  tried  to  dismiss  it,  and  could 
not.  She  had  called  him  "  too  much  of  a  clergy- 
man —  not  enough  of  a  man."  As  he  walked  home, 
he  analysed  its  meaning,  and  tried  to  disguise  it  in 
sophistries.  But  the  intellectual  honesty  which  was 
his  at  base,  forbade.  The  meaning  was  far  too 
manifest.  And  at  intervals  through  the  week,  he 
strove  to  force  his  thoughts  into  an  effective  answer. 
But  always  there  was  failure  at  the  end. 

Of  course  such  charges  as  she  had  made  to  him 
were  not  new.  The  literature  of  the  day  was  full  of 
them.  But  hitherto  he  had  been  able  to  keep  his 
defences  intact.  When  his  own  logic  failed  him, 
there  was  always  the  logic  of  his  schooling  and  of  his 
contemporaries  upon  which  to  fall  back.  But  for 
such  heresies  to  spring  from  Judith  —  that  was 
treachery  within  the  gates.  He  resented  it  bitterly, 
and  he  was  appalled  as  the  weapons  so  strong  in  the 
past  now  crumpled  in  his  hands. 

A  whisper  grew  louder  and  louder  in  his  soul,  a 


156  THIRTY 

question  sounded  more  and  more  relentlessly.  And 
when  it  would  brook  no  more  delay,  reluctantly,  sick 
at  heart,  and  filled  with  fear  at  the  outcome,  he 
hauled  down  his  flag  of  truce  and  gave  the  devil 
battle. 

It  was  well  after  midnight  of  Saturday  when  the 
last  gun  was  fired,  and  the  struggle  was  over.  With 
lips  compressed,  and  brow  furrowed,  and  with  his 
tongue  parched  by  the  pipes  he  had  smoked,  Imrie 
capitulated. 

On  the  morrow  he  would  put  his  life  to  the  test. 

But  when  he  stood  in  the  pulpit  and  faced  his  con- 
gregation, awaiting  him  with  courteous  expectancy, 
as  it  had  waited  so  often,  his  heart  well-nigh  failed 
him.  Slowly  he  let  his  eyes  rove  over  the  throng, 
brilliant  in  costume,  exuding  the  indefinable  aroma 
of  power  and  luxury.  These  men  and  women  of  St. 
Viateur's  were  the  cream  of  the  community.  It  was 
no  small  thing  to  be  the  shepherd  of  such  a  flock. 
The  silence  grew  oppressive,  while  he  hesitated.  He 
seemed  to  look  for  someone.  Finally  he  found 
what  he  sought.  His  face  hardened  and  his  teeth 
clicked  so  sharply  that  those  in  the  pews  near  at 
hand  could  almost  hear  the  sound.  Judith  was  in  a 
seat  well  back  in  the  church.  Good  was  beside  her. 
Imrie's  task  had  suddenly  become  far  harder,  yet 
even  more  imperative.  He  hesitated  no  longer. 

He   cleared   his  throat  and  his  eyes  wandered, 


DEAD  IDOLS  157 

raptly,  as  of  old,  into  the  dim  vastness  of  the  rafters. 
"  Think  not  that  I  am  come  to  send  peace  on  earth: 
I  came  not  to  send  peace,  but  a  sword,"  he  said  im- 
pressively. "  Text  taken  from  the  Gospel  according 
to  St.  Matthew,  tenth  chapter,  thirty-fourth  verse." 

He  paused  at  that  point,  as  he  had  paused  Sundays 
without  end,  and  the  congregation,  as  if  at  a  signal, 
seemed  to  settle  back  and  make  itself  resignedly  com- 
fortable against  the  duty  it  faced.  There  was  a 
subdued  but  general  coughing,  and  the  whispering 
rustle  of  silks:  then  a  calm  hush. 

But  the  preacher  had  not  uttered  a  dozen  words 
before  the  expectant  quiet  changed  sensibly.  It  was 
not  his  words  which  caused  the  change,  but  his  tone. 
And  it  was  not  that  his  tone  was  dramatic,  but  that  it 
was  not.  The  very  fact  that  he  spoke  with  a  com- 
plete freedom  from  anything  histrionic  presented  a 
contrast  which  amazed. 

But  as  the  significance  of  the  lesson  he  was  draw- 
ing from  the  text  became  clear  to  them,  astonishment 
gave  place  to  an  almost  ominous,  certainly  an  un- 
sympathetic, attention. 

Never  in  his  career  had  he  had  more  heedful  lis- 
teners. As  if  magically,  the  news  seemed  to  have 
percolated  to  the  most  obtuse  intelligences  that  grave 
matters  were  transpiring.  Once  or  twice  there  was  a 
sibilant  inrush  of  breath  from  some  auditor  too 
dumfounded  for  control.  But  for  the  rest  there  was 


1 58  THIRTY 

utter  silence.  There  was  not  a  rustle  nor  a  cough. 
The  congregation  of  St.  Viateur's  had  changed  its 
character.  It  was  playing  a  different  role.  It  was 
as  if  an  epicure  had  bitten  caviar  and  tasted  quinine. 
It  waited. 

Meanwhile,  the  Reverend  Arnold  Imrie  was  re- 
cording his  new-found  belief  that  the  peace  of  Christ 
was  not  a  complacent  acceptance  of  earthly  misery, 
but  a  dynamic  struggle  against  the  few  who  dispos- 
sessed—  or  would  dispossess  —  the  many;  that  the 
\  Man  of  Sorrows  was  a  rebel,  seeking,  not  to  bring 
men  to  heaven,  but  heaven  to  men;  that  he  brought 
a  sword,  sharp-pointed  for  the  blood  of  injustice,  for 
which,  injustice,  terrified,  crucified  him;  and  he  was 
asking,  very  simply  but  very  clearly,  whether  the 
charge  of  heretics  that  time  had  brought  about  a 
change  between  preaching  Christ  and  preaching 

prna^  was  fryp  * 

"He  went  calmly  on,  opening,  though  they  never 
suspected  it,  the  innermost  chambers  of  his  heart 
to  them,  taking  them  into  his  confidence  as  he  had 
never  before  taken  even  himself.  For  the  first  time, 
he  did  not  preach:  it  was  rather  a  mutual  inventory 
before  the  God  they  worshipped,  a  dispassionate  an- 
alysis of  the  institutions  they  revered,  to  see  if,  since 
they  had  become  idols,  they  had  deteriorated  or  no. 

Only  once  did  his  emotionless  manner  desert  him. 
Then  without  euphemism,  he  lashed  them  for  their 


DEAD  IDOLS  159 

luxuries,  for  the  repletion  of  their  bellies,  for  the 
ideals  of  the  spirit  that  they  had  allowed  to  die  of 
starvation.  For  a  few  minutes  he  waxed  eloquent 
and  bitter  and  cruel.  With  a  crash  of  his  fist  on 
the  pulpit  rail  he  repeated  the  words,  "  let  him  take 
up  his  cross  and  follow  me,"  and  hammered  home 
to  them,  with  brutal  logic  and  remorseless  clarity, 
what  they  meant. 

It  was  a  new  Jesus  which  he  painted  for  them, 
in  bold  sharp  strokes.  The  Lamb  of  God,  the  doe- 
eyed  martyr  to  vicarious  atonement,  vanished,  and 
in  his  place  stood  a  virile  battler  for  human  rights. 

The  strongest  sentiment  in  the  minds  of  the  listen- 
ers was  one  of  bewilderment.  They  watched,  with 
something  approaching  admiration,  the  portrait  as  it 
grew  more  vivid  before  their  eyes,  and  a  few  even 
admitted  in  it  a  specious  fidelity.  But  none  could 
comprehend  at  all  clearly  the  reason  for  their  rec- 
tor's complete  and  sudden  estrangement  from  the 
conceptions  which  he  had  worshipped  hitherto  with 
an  orthodoxy  beyond  suspicion. 

And  yet  the  explanation  was  profoundly  simple. 
In  the  first  place  he  had  come  away  from  his  talk 
with  Judith  to  study  Scripture  with  new  eyes.  In 
words  so  familiar  that  he  could  quote  them  he  had 
found  new  meaning.  He  had  realised,  with  a  shock, 
that  always  until  then  he  had  given  a  superficial  ac- 
ceptance to  the  interpretations  of  others,  and  in 


160  THIRTY 

natural  consequence  he  had  set  himself  to  the  busi- 
ness of  interpretation  assisted  by  nothing  but  his  own 
powers  of  logic  and  analysis.  Once  the  new  key- 
stone was  placed,  the  change  in  the  entire  arch  was 
inevitable  and  immediate.  He  had  only  to  secure  a 
new  postulate :  the  rest  of  the  syllogism  followed  as  a 
matter  of  course. 

The  second  part  of  the  explanation  was  simpler 
still.  From  the  time  that  man  emerged  from  his 
female  origin,  man  has  been  doing  things,  both  sub- 
lime and  foolish,  to  win  the  regard  of  woman.  In 
the  little  boy  who  jumps  off  a  high  place  because 
a  little  girl  "  dared  "  him  to  jump,  may  be  found  the 
key  to  Imrie's  puzzling  transformation.  Judith  had 
dared  him  to  be  more  man  than  clergyman.  His 
eyes  were  fixed  on  her  as  he  jumped. 

There  can  be  no  doubt  that  he  went  further  than 
he  had  intended  when  he  entered  the  pulpit.  But  as 
speech  clarifies  thought,  the  very  course  of  maintain- 
ing his  new  argument  strengthened  him  in  it,  and  his 
fears  and  hesitancies  vanished.  He  left  no  doubt  in 
other  minds,  as  to  his  meaning,  as  he  cleared  away 
the  doubts  in  his  own. 

Judith,  listening  in  amazement  with  the  rest,  real- 
ised, as  did  few,  how  characteristic  of  him  it  all  was. 
She  felt  that  she  could  almost  trace  the  steps  which 
had  brought  him  to  this  point.  Her  own  attitude 
had  played  a  large  share,  she  felt  certain.  Her 


DEAD  IDOLS  161 

doubts  had  set  up  doubts  in  him.  He  had  tried  to 
dissipate  them,  and  had  failed.  So  far  he  was  quite 
like  other  men.  But  then  he  had  resolved  to  tell  his 
congregation  that  he  had  failed.  In  that  he  was  dif- 
ferent. Other  men  would  have  waited  longer,  have 
hesitated  and  put  off  and  pondered,  some  to  the  end 
of  their  lives.  Not  so  with  Imrie.  A  resolution 
once  made  was  turned  into  action  without  delay,  be 
the  consequences  what  they  might.  The  one  out- 
standing distinction  of  his  nature  was  his  unfailing 
courage. 

The  whole  procedure,  involved  and  incomprehen- 
sible and  distressing  as  she  knew  it  must  appear  to 
most  minds,  was  perfectly  clear  to  her.  She  had  put 
questions  to  him  that  he  could  not  answer.  So  he 
had  resolved  to  put  them,  without  equivocation  or 
delay,  to  his  congregation.  That  to  them  these  ques- 
tions did  not  betoken  honest  doubt,  but  downright 
heresy,  was  no  concern  of  his.  They  had  to  hear, 
and  having  heard,  they  had  to  decide  what  their 
significance  was  for  him  and  for  them,  and  for  the 
relations  between  them.  That  he  realised  quite 
clearly  that  he  was  jeopardising  his  professional 
future,  she  did  not  for  a  moment  doubt.  But  that 
realisation,  she  knew  very  well,  would  only  confirm 
him  the  more  strongly  in  his  purpose. 

Suddenly  she  realised  that  he  was  bringing  his  re- 
markable sermon  to  a  close.  His  voice  sank,  becom- 


1 62  THIRTY 

ing  almost  conversational,  though  it  penetrated  to 
the  furthest  corner  of  the  church. 

It  was  the  closing  plea  of  a  lawyer  before  a  jury 
of  his  peers.  He  had  shown  what  he  believed  to  be 
the  fallacies  in  their  relations  to  the  Lord  Jesus,  and 
the  fallacies  in  his  own;  he  had  shown  the  failure  of 
the  Church,  which  meant  them  as  well  as  himself, 
to  live  up  to  its  social  significance;  he  had  demon- 
strated with  vivid  brutality,  the  inconsistency  between 
their  professions  of  faith  and  their  daily  lives;  he 
had  humbled  himself  before  his  ideals  and  sought  to 
make  them  do  likewise ;  and  now,  very  gently,  he  was 
asking  for  the  verdict. 

He  paused  for  a  moment  before  his  last  words, 
and  swept  the  congregation  with  his  eyes.  They  saw 
far  more  than  was  there  to  see.  They  saw  his  semi- 
nary days,  when  the  world  looked  so  simple  and  so 
enticing.  They  saw  the  early  days  of  his  charge  of 
St.  Viateur's,  when  the  knowledge  of  actual  achieve- 
ment was  not  troubled  by  spiritual  doubts.  They 
saw  the  Sundays,  innumerable,  when  his  words,  re- 
ceived by  the  great  ones  of  the  community  with  ad- 
miration and  approval,  had  been  followed  by  the 
little  flatteries  to  which  no  human  heart  is  immune. 
Then  a  lump  rose  in  his  throat,  and  his  gaze  came 
nearer.  Something  like  tears  came  into  his  eyes  as 
he  surveyed  these  friends  whom  he  was  deliberately 
transforming  into  something  perilously  like  enemies 


DEAD  IDOLS  163 

—  for  no  reason  save  that  he  must.  They  would 
never  understand  —  never.  And  yet  he  must  go 
on  —  to  the  end  if  need  be.  That  was  his  destiny. 

Quietly  he  put  his  last  question  to  them,  "  What 
are  you  going  to  do  about  it?  "  Then  he  closed  his 
eyes  for  a  moment,  opened  them  to  stare  unseeing 
at  judge  and  jury,  sighed  softly,  and  abruptly  left  the 
pulpit. 

The  answer  was  not  long  in  coming.  He  knew 
that  it  would  not  be,  and  he  dallied  in  the  vestry, 
purposely.  Judge  Wolcott,  kindly  and  genial,  ap- 
proached him  with  outstretched  hand. 

"  Arnold,  it  was  magnificent,"  he  said,  with  a  pa- 
ternal clap  on  his  shoulder,  adding,  in  an  undertone, 
though  no  one  was  near,  "  but  I  don't  think  I  would 
repeat  it." 

"Why?"  asked  Imrie  coldly. 

The  Judge  tugged  at  his  white  beard  nervously. 
Then  he  patted  the  younger  man  again  with  what 
seemed  like  a  somewhat  exaggerated  friendliness. 

"  Oh,  come  now,  Arnold,  don't  get  on  your  high 
horse.  You  know  what  I  mean.  That  sort  of 
thing's  all  right  —  occasionally.  But  it's  juve- 
nile. .  .  ." 

"Juvenile?" 

'*  Well,  perhaps  not  that.  But  it's  young,  sopho- 
moric,  journalistic,  sentimental  —  you  understand, 
I'm  sure." 


1 64  THIRTY 

"  Quite." 

"  We  have  some  pretty  conservative  members  here, 
you  know.  As  laymen  go,  they're  powerful."  He 
stopped  and  watched  Imrie,  waiting  for  the  effect  of 
his  words  to  sink  in.  "  For  a  young  man,  practically 
at  the  outset  of  his  career,  to  offend  them  —  would 
be  unwise." 

Imrie's  coldness  dissolved,  and  he  smiled  broadly. 

"  We  know  each  other  too  well  to  fence,  Judge. 
Let's  be  frank  with  each  other." 

"  But  I  am  frank,"  cried  the  older  man. 

"  Not  entirely.  You're  trying  to  reprimand  me 
without  seeming  to  do  it." 

"  Not  at  all.     I'm  merely  —  ah  —  advising  you." 

"  I  see.  And  if  I  don't  choose  to  heed  the  —  ah 
—  advice  .  .  .  what  then?" 

The  judge  lifted  his  finely  manicured  fingers  and 
shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  You're  not  a  boy,  Arnold. 
You  have  eyes  —  and  ears." 

Imrie  laughed  again,  but  not  pleasantly. 

"Is  this  official?" 

"  I  don't  understand." 

"  I  mean,  are  you  talking  to  me  as  a  friend  —  or 
as  a  vestryman?  " 

"  My  dear  boy,  the  vestrymen  are  your  friends." 

"  Please  don't  quibble.  There's  the  same  dual 
personality  in  you  that  there  is  in  me  talking  among 
friends  and  preaching  in  this  pulpit.  Aren't  you  pre- 


DEAD  IDOLS  165 

paring  me  now  —  as  a  friend  —  for  what  you  might 
have  to  say  —  as  a  vestryman  ?  " 

"  If  you  insist  —  yes,"  the  Judge  admitted,  rather 
testily.  It  nettled  him  to  be  put  on  the  defensive,  his 
subtleness  openly  contemned. 

"  In  other  words,"  Imrie  rose  from  his  chair  and 
walked  over  to  the  window,  where  he  paused  for  a 
moment.  "  In  other  words,  you  bear  unofficial  or- 
ders." 

"  Not  orders." 

"  Advice  then  —  advice  for  me  to  preach  what  the 
people  want  —  and  let  what  they  need  go  hang?" 

"  Arnold  —  my  dear  boy,"  cried  the  Judge  pacifi- 
cally, following  him  to  the  window.  But  Imrie 
edged  away. 

"  As  the  Spanish  poet  put  it,  '[Since  the  public  pay 
'tis  just,  methinks,  we  by  their  compass  steer,  and 
write  the  nonsense  that  they  love  to  hear  'a"  he  mur- 
mured gently. 

"  Really,  I  — "  the  Judge  was  at  a  loss  for  words. 
He  had  anticipated  no  such  reception  as  this. 

Imrie's  voice  changed  and  his  lips  narrowed. 

"  You  may  tell  the  —  er  —  powerful  laymen  — 
Judge  Wolcott,  that  I  take  my  orders  in  these  matters 
from  my  conscience,  not  from  them." 

The  older  man  stared  at  him  in  amazement. 

"  Are  you  crazy?  "  he  demanded,  and  a  light  flick- 
ered in  his  own  eyes. 


1 66  THIRTY 

"  Obviously,"  said  Imrie  shortly. 

"  Do  you  realise  what  this  means?  " 

11  Perfectly." 

"  Are  you  prepared  to  abide  by  the  conse- 
quences ?  "  That  the  Judge  was  thoroughly  aroused 
was  plain.  He  did  not  like  to  have  subordinates 
treat  him  in  such  fashion,  and  any  notion  that  Imrie 
was  not  a  subordinate  was  of  course  only  a  polite 
fiction.  It  was  incredible  that  this  young  fool  should 
think  it  anything  else. 

"  My  resignation  will  be  in  your  hands  this  after- 
noon," said  Imrie  quietly. 

"  Come,  Arnold  my  lad,"  cried  the  Judge,  honestly 
dismayed  by  the  course  their  conversation  had  taken. 
"You  mustn't  be  offended  —  really  you  mustn't. 
Let's  get  together  and  discuss  this  like  men. 
We  .  .  ." 

"  There  is  nothing  to  discuss,"  said  Imrie  with  a 
shortness  which  brooked  no  further  opening.  "  You 
have  stated  your  case  with  perfect  clearness.  I  hope 
I  have  stated  mine  equally  so.  I  think  that  ends  it." 

"  My  dear  young  friend,"  said  the  older  man  with 
an  effort  at  patience  which  only  partially  concealed 
his  increasing  exasperation.  "  I  had  no  intention  of 
stirring  up  all  this  excitement.  I  come  to  you  with  a 
friendly  word  of  advice  and  you  treat  me  like  — 
like  a  policeman !  Egad,  one  would  think  I  was  your 
worst  enemy." 


DEAD  IDOLS  167 

"I'm  sorry  — really-- I  .  .  ." 

"  Then  forget  it.  Come  —  we'll  take  a  stroll  and 
talk  about  the  weather.  There's  a  good  fellow. 
No  sense  in  letting  a  little  difference  of  opinion  make 
us  lose  our  tempers." 

But  behind  the  Judge's  conciliatory  words  was  a 
secret  resolve  merely  to  wait  for  a  more  propitious 
moment  and  then  to  reopen  the  discussion  —  with  a 
tact,  of  course,  acquired  by  experience.  So,  after 
a  desultory  discourse,  in  which  he  touched  upon  a 
number  of  obviously  unimportant  matters,  and  dur- 
ing which  the  younger  man  was  uniformly  silent,  he 
renewed  his  circuitous  attack.  He  tried  very  hard 
to  be  calm  and  judicial,  but  Imrie's  taciturn  antagon- 
ism quite  overthrew  his  poise.  And  when  the 
clergyman  remained  obdurate  to  all  his  subtlest 
questions  and  cajoleries  and  indisputable  logic,  the 
Judge  lost  his  temper. 

'  You're  an  obstinate  ass,"  he  almost  shouted. 
'  There's  no  doubt  of  it,"  said  Imrie  quietly. 
There  was  of  course  nothing  more  to  be  said  after 
that,  so  they  parted,  the  Judge  to  spread  the  news  of 
the  incredible  stubbornness  of  the  clergyman,  and 
Imrie  to  a  miserable  walk,  alone. 

He  was  wretched,  of  course.  He  knew  per- 
fectly well  what  the  outcome  of  his  folly  might  be. 
But  counteracting  his  regret  at  that,  was  a  glorious 
feeling  of  achievement,  of  having  conquered  the 


1 68  THIRTY 

devil  in  a  pitched  battle,  and  of  having  emerged 
with  no  stain  on  his  shield.  To  all  the  world,  Don 
Quixote,  slaying  windmills,  was  an  "  obstinate  ass," 
but  to  Don  Quixote  he  was  a  hero.  Imrie's  feel- 
ings, as  he  battled  with  the  wind,  were  a  curious  com- 
plex of  dejection  and  triumph. 

When  he  returned  to  his  rooms,  he  found  a  mes- 
sage from  Judith,  insisting  upon  his  presence  at 
supper  that  evening.  For  a  little  he  debated  the 
acceptance  of  the  invitation.  He  felt  reluctant  at 
facing  her.  He  wondered  what  she  would  think  of 
him.  He  feared  that  she  might  doubt  his  sincerity. 
But  he  also  had  a  powerful  curiosity  as  to  what  she 
would  say,  and  her  verdict  was  of  more  importance 
to  him  than  that  of  all  the  vestries  in  the  land.  He 
decided  to  go. 

She  greeted  him  with  greater  enthusiasm  than 
she  had  ever  before  manifested  toward  him. 

u  It  was  wonderful,  Arnold,  wonderful.  I  never 
guessed  it  was  in  you.  I  can't  tell  you  how  proud 
I  was  of  you.  It  was  a  splendid  sermon  —  it  was 
splendid  courage.  It  was  —  if  only  I  had  the 
words  .  .  ." 

"  You  don't  need  words,"  he  said  softly,  taking 
her  hands  into  his,  and  looking  tenderly  into  her 
eyes. 

She  continued  to  pour  oil  on  his  troubled  soul, 
but  she  withdrew  her  hands,  and  not  again  did  she 


DEAD  IDOLS  169 

allow  herself  to  come  so  close  to  him.  He  felt 
vaguely  disappointed,  even  in  the  midst  of  her 
praise. 

"  I  am  so  humiliated  for  what  I  said  to  you  last 
week,"  she  cried. 

"  It  was  what  made  —  this,"  he  said  simply. 

Suddenly  her  gaze  went  beyond  him,  and  he  fol- 
lowed it  to  the  doorway.  His  face  clouded.  A 
gust  of  annoyance  swept  him  for  Judith,  for  this 
trick  she  had  played  him.  It  was  unfair  of  her 
thus  to  force  him  to  meet  a  man  she  knew  he  de- 
tested. But  his  irritation  changed  to  surprise,  when 
Good,  with  his  long  awkward  stride,  hurried  toward 
him,  and  seized  his  hand. 

"  Mr.  Imrie,"  he  said  genuinely,  "  I  was  in  your 
church  this  morning.  I  want  to  tell  you  that  that 
was  one  of  the  biggest  things  I  ever  saw.  My  con- 
gratulations probably  don't  mean  much  to  you,  but 
they're  yours  without  a  shadow  of  a  reservation. 
That  was  the  noblest  sermon  I  ever  heard." 

The  man's  enthusiasm  was  so  deep  and  so  ob- 
viously sincere  that  Imrie's  instinctive  antipathy  was 
banished.  After  all,  he  told  himself  on  reflection, 
his  dislike  for  Good  was  based  on  his  antagonism 
for  the  smug  hypocrisy,  the  senseless  irreligion  that 
he  had  himself  attacked  only  that  morning.  In  a 
way  they  were  brothers  in  a  common  cause.  It  was 
with  a  very  different  feeling  than  he  had  expected 


170  THIRTY 

that  he  accepted  the  tall  man's  congratulations  and 
with  the  utmost  sincerity  that  he  thanked  him. 

Supper  proved  a  gay  function.  Judith  was  at 
her  happiest,  and  Good's  anecdotes  followed  one 
another  in  merry  succession.  Imrie  found  himself 
insensibly  warming  to  the  man  he  had  disliked  so 
intensely,  and  rather  grateful  than  otherwise  to 
Judith  for  having  arranged  so  pleasant  a  meeting. 

But  when  the  meal  was  finished  and  they  were  in 
the  library  with  their  coffee,  mirth  seemed  to  leave 
the  gathering,  and  a  certain  constraint  fell  upon 
them  all.  Each  of  the  men  wanted  to  talk  to  Judith 
of  matters  which  were  too  intimate  to  share  with 
the  other.  Their  remarks  diminished  rapidly  in 
frequency  and  extent,  and  presently  there  was  com- 
plete silence.  It  was  necessary  for  Judith  to  break 
it.  She  thought  it  best  to  get  to  the  heart  of  things 
immediately.  She  addressed  herself  first  to  Good. 

"  Shall  I  tell  him  what  we  have  done?  "  she  asked, 
as  if  not  quite  sure  of  herself.  The  tall  man  nod- 
ded, not  very  enthusiastically,  it  seemed  to  Imrie. 

"  Well  .  .  ."  Again  she  hesitated.  "  I  sup- 
pose it's  best  to  break  the  news  without  any  pre- 
liminaries?" Good  nodded  his  assent. 

"  Still,  it's  so  very  surprising  —  however,  the  fact 
is  ...  we've  bought  a  newspaper  —  The  Dis- 
patch!" 

"Yes?"     Imrie  refused  to  show  any  surprise  at 


DEAD  IDOLS  171 

all.     Obviously  he  thought  it  was  some  subtle  jest 
they  were  playing  upon  him. 

"  You  don't  understand,"  cried  Judith,  "  I'm  the 
owner  of  a  newspaper." 

"Well  — what  for?" 

"  To  tell  the  truth,"  she  said  solemnly. 

Imrie  smiled  indulgently.  "  That's  praiseworthy, 
I'm  sure,"  he  said  ironically. 

That  was  too  much  for  Good.  Obviously  the 
clergyman  did  not  understand.  He  must  be  made 
to  understand.  His  timidity  slipped  from  him  and 
he  plunged  into  an  explanation  of  the  great  plans 
they  were  making. 

Imrie  listened  attentively,  and  as  he  caught  the 
significance  of  the  idea  his  manner  changed  from 
scepticism  to  something  approaching  enthusiasm. 
Then  his  face  slowly  hardened  and  a  semblance  of 
a  sneer  formed  on  his  lips. 

'  Telling  the  truth  may  get  you  into  trouble,"  he 
said  half  to  himself. 

"  Of  course,"  cried  Good,  "  it  not  only  may  —  it's 
certain  to." 

Imrie  turned  to  Judith.     "  Are  you  as  optimistic 
as  Mr.  Good?" 

Her  lips  narrowed  ever  so  slightly  and  a  faint 
suggestion  of  a  gleam  came  Into  her  eyes.  Then 
she  shrugged  her  shoulders  and  laughed  lightly. 
"  If  trouble  comes  —  I  shall  be  ready." 


172  THIRTY 

"  But  you're  not  sure  that  it  will  come?" 

"  I  'm  not  experienced  in  such  things.  Were  you 
sure  of  trouble  when  you  delivered  your  sermon 
this  morning?  " 

"  Quite." 

"Did  it  come?" 

"  It  did." 

Imrie  smiled  pleasantly  enough  but  the  bitterness 
of  his  tone  was  not  lost  on  Judith. 

"  Arnold  —  what  do  you  mean  —  what  trou- 
ble?" 

"  What  would  you  expect?     I  have  resigned." 

"The  devil!"  cried  Good. 

Judith's  amazement  was  not  feigned.     It  struck 

Imrie  that  it  would  have  been  more  pleasant  to 

him    had    she    shown    less    astonishment    at    the 

course   he  had  taken.     "But  it  isn't  final?"   she 

cried. 

"As  far  as  I  am  concerned,  it  is.  It  is  not  at  all 
unlikely  that  the  vestry  will  find  it  final  too."  More 
than  ever  Imrie  resented  the  presence  of  Good.  He 
wanted  to  explain  to  Judith  the  part  she  had  played 
in  his  resolution.  That  made  him  tell  the  story 
of  his  interview  with  Judge  Wolcott  very  perfuncto- 
rily, and  dismiss  the  subject  as  quickly  as  he 
could. 

But  Good  was  not  easily  put  off,  although  Judith 
seemed  to  sense  the  purpose  in  his  reticence. 


DEAD  IDOLS  173 

"  What  will  you  do  if  you  resign?  "  he  asked  bluntly. 

"  Not  '  if,'  "  said  Imrie  coldly,  "  I  have  already 
resigned." 

Good  ignored  the  snub.  "  What'll  you  do 
next?"  he  persisted. 

"  I  have  no  idea,"  said  Imrie,  turning  away.  A 
moment  later  he  rose  to  leave. 

Good  eyed  him  quizzically  as  they  shook  hands, 
and  smiled,  half  wistfully,  half  amusedly.  "  You 
don't  understand  me,  Mr.  Imrie,"  he  said  with  char- 
acteristic candour;  "you  don't  think  I  understand. 
I'm  older  than  you.  I  have  been  through  things. 
Some  day  —  perhaps  —  oh,  well,  we'll  wait  for  the 
day,  won't  we  ?  " 

Imrie  was  puzzled.  He  was  vaguely  grateful, 
too,  though  he  could  find  no  words  to  express  his 
gratitude.  He  stared  perplexedly  at  Good,  who 
had  picked  up  a  magazine  and  appeared  deeply  en- 
grossed. Then  he  shrugged  his  shoulders  help- 
lessly and  turned  to  go. 

"  Some  time,"  he  said  to  Judith,  who  had  fol- 
lowed him  to  the  door,  "  I  should  like  to  see  you 
and  tell  you  all  about  it."  He  looked  at  her  long- 
ingly as  he  spoke.  He  seemed  very  tired,  she 
thought. 

"  I  understand,"  said  Judith.  He  wondered  if 
she  really  did. 

A  cold  rain  had  been  falling  steadily  all  evening. 


174  THIRTY 

The  street  lamps  flickered  dismally  through  the  mist 
and  the  trees  dripped  soddenly.  It  was  a  fitting 
end,  he  thought,  to  the  dreariest  day  he  had  ever 
known.  The  morning  had  seen  the  ruin  of  his  flow- 
ering career,  cut  down  by  his  own  ruthless  hand, 
under  no  compulsion  save  that  of  his  own  senseless 
conscience.  And  the  evening,  as  a  bitter  crown  to 
the  day,  had  seen  the  salt  of  jealousy  ground  into 
his  wounds.  The  contrast  between  himself  stand- 
ing on  the  brink  of  indecision,  wandering  aimlessly 
from  disgust  to  humiliation,  without  satisfaction  in 
the  past  or  hope  for  the  future ;  and  that  other  man 
—  who  had  no  indecision,  whose  hopes  were  half 
realised  —  made  his  heart  heavy  within  him. 

It  was  a  saddened  and  chaotic  Imrie  who  plodded 
on  through  the  lonely  streets  striving  to  regain  some 
fragment  of  the  philosophy  which  had  deserted  him 
so  utterly. 


CHAPTER  VII 

"  IF  PEOPLE  ONLY  KNEW  I  " 

A  LITTLE  after  three  o'clock  on  the  afternoon  of  the 
day  which  first  saw  Judith  Wynrod  a  newspaper 
proprietor,  Good  walked  into  the  office  of  The  Dis- 
patch and  asked  to  see  Mr.  Bassett,  the  managing 
editor. 

"  Will  you  be  good  enough  to  indicate  the  pur- 
pose of  your  visit  on  this  slip,"  said  the  old  pensioner 
at  the  information  desk. 

Good  took  the  pencil  held  out  to  him  and  in  a 
bold  hand  wrote:  "  Mr.  Good  wishes  to  see  Mr. 
Bassett." 

Cerberus  smiled  faintly,  as  if  courtesy  alone  pre- 
vented him  from  totally  ignoring  so  feeble  a  jest. 
'  That  will  hardly  suffice,  Mr.  Good.  We  have  our 
rules,  you  know,"  he  said  firmly. 

"  Of  course,"  admitted  Good  patiently.  "  But  all 
rules  have  exceptions." 

''  We  know  none  here,  sir,"  said  the  old  man 
pompously,  while  loungers  in  the  anteroom  smiled 
their  enjoyment  of  the  scene. 

"  But,  my  dear  man,"  cried  Good  in  exasperation, 
i75 


176  THIRTY 

"  I  don't  want  to  write  him  a  letter.  I  want  to  talk 
to  him.  Will  you  take  this  in,  or  will  I  have  to 
take  it  myself?  "  He  seemed  so  capable  of  carry- 
ing out  the  latter  alternative  that  after  some  further 
protestation  the  disgusted  warder  disappeared  into 
the  private  offices. 

Almost  immediately  he  reappeared,  a  faint  but 
plainly  triumphant  smile  curling  the  corners  of  his 
lips. 

"  Mr.  Bassett  says  — "  he  paused  significantly. 
Then  he  added  suavely,  "  He  regrets  that  he  is  very 
busy  and  is  unable  to  see  you." 

Good  smiled.  "  That's  old  stuff,"  he  said 
placidly,  with  his  hand  on  the  wicket.  .  Without  fur- 
ther parley  he  opened  it  and  marched  in. 

A  small  man  in  his  shirt  sleeves,  his  thin  lips  grimly 
compressed,  sat  at  a  desk  piled  high  in  disorderly 
confusion,  chewing  an  unlighted  cigar.  He  did  not 
look  up  as  Good  entered.  But  at  the  latter's  dep- 
recating cough  he  wheeled  around  in  his  chair  and 
glared  savagely. 

"How  the  hell  did  you  get  in  here?"  he  de- 
manded. 

"  Through  the  doorway,"  replied  Good  mildly. 

"  That  door  says  '  private  ' —  and  I'm  busy." 

Good  sat  down  and  leisurely  drawing  his  pipe 
from  his  pocket  filled  it. 

"  I  suppose  you  didn't  see  that  sign  outside  ?  "  in- 


"  IF  PEOPLE  ONLY  KNEW!"        177 

quired  the  small  man  sarcastically.     "  It  said  '  no 
smoking.'  ' 

"  That  was  outside,"  said  Good  shortly,  without 
looking  up.  "  I'm  in  now.  But  look  here,  Mr. 
Bassett,"  he  continued  with  a  quizzical  smile,  "  don't 
irritate  me.  It  .  .  ." 

"Don't  irritate  you?"  Bassett  stared  blankly. 
"  Who  the  .  .  ." 

"  No  —  it  might  cost  you  your  job." 

The  editor  laughed  harshly.  "  Hell,  you  must 
want  a  story  suppressed." 

4  What  makes  you  think  so?" 

'  They  all  begin  by  threatening  to  get  my  scalp." 

"  Well,  that's  a  bum  guess  this  time."  Good  drew 
his  chair  up  beside  the  desk  and  pushed  a  cleared 
place  among  the  papers.  "  Now  see  here,  Mr.  Bas- 
sett, I  have  something  to  tell  you." 

"  It's  about  time  you  began  telling  it,"  said  Bas- 
sett dryly. 

14 1  had  to  get  you  in  a  receptive  mood  before  I 
could  begin.  Now  I'm  ready." 

"  Fire  away."  The  editor  lit  his  cigar  and 
waved  his  hand  resignedly. 

"  Quick  is  quick.  To  get  to  the  point,  this  paper 
has  changed  hands." 

The  expression  on  Bassett's  face  changed  immedi- 
ately. "  You  mean  —  it's  sold?  " 

"  Just  so." 


1 78  THIRTY 

"Who  got  it  —  the  Le  Gore  crowd?"  It  was 
Bassett's  profession  always  to  be  prepared  for  the 
unusual,  but  it  was  manifest  from  his  knitted  eye- 
brows and  his  nervous  drumming  on  the  desk  that 
he  was  astonished. 

"  No,  Miss  Judith  Wynrod." 

"  The  millionaire  kid !  "  cried  Bassett.  "  What 
the  devil  does  she  want  a  newspaper  for?  Is  she 
going  to  run  it?  " 

11  No,"  said  Good  calmly,  "  I  am." 

"  You?     Who  in  thunder  are  you?  " 

Good  leaned  back  and  put  his  thumbs  in  his  waist- 
coat. "  I,"  he  said  without  smiling,  "  am  the 
crafty  bunco-steerer.  With  misguided  confidence 
the  boss  is  going  to  let  me  run  her  paper  for  her. 
In  future,  my  profane  friend,  you're  going  to  take 
your  orders  from  me." 

"Do  you  know  anything  about  newspapering?  " 

"  Quite  a  bit,  yes." 

Bassett  rose  and  clasping  his  hands  behind  his 
back,  strode  rapidly  back  and  forth,  without  speak- 
ing, for  several  moments.  Finally  he  stopped  and 
shifting  his  cigar  savagely  from  one  side  of  his 
mouth  to  the  other,  stared  vacantly  into  space. 

"  Well,"  he  said  slowly,  "  the  first  thing  a  new 
owner  usually  does  is  to  fire  the  staff.  I  suppose 
I  might  as  well  begin  getting  ready  and  packing  up 
my  things.  That's  one  of  the  beauties  in  this  news- 


"IF  PEOPLE  ONLY  KNEW!"        179 

paper  game.     There's  no  monotony  in  your  job." 

Good  laughed  cheerfully.  "  I  wouldn't  be  in  any 
hurry  about  it,"  he  said;  "nobody's  slated  for  the 
blue  envelope  yet." 

"  What's  the  policy  going  to  be?"  asked  Bassett 
after  a  pause. 

"  None,"  said  Good  shortly. 

"  I  don't  get  you." 

"You  will." 

"  The  orders'll  come  from  down-stairs  as  usual,  I 
suppose?  " 

Good  betrayed  himself  for  the  first  time  during 
the  interview.  "  No,"  he  cried,  bringing  his  fist 
down  on  the  desk  so  that  the  papers  fluttered,  "  that's 
one  place  they  won't  come  from."  Bassett  laughed, 
not  very  pleasantly. 

"  Good  stuff,  old  top.  I  love  to  hear  that  line 
of  talk.  It's  inspiring.  But  they  all  start  that  way. 
I've  been  in  the  game  a  long  time.  I've  pulled  the 
Washington  on  tank  town  weeklies,  trimmed  boiler 
plate  on  all-home-print,  and  attained  the  eminence 
of  space  writer  on  county  seat  dailies.  I've  done 
time  in  the  newspaper  game  from  soup  to  nuts,  and 
I've  yet  to  see  the  sheet  that  isn't  run  from  the  busi- 
ness office." 

'  You've  got  something  to  live  for  then,  haven't 
you?  "  said  Good  sweetly. 

"  I've  always  said  that  there  weren't  any  sur- 


i8o  THIRTY 

prises  in  a  newspaper  man's  life,"  continued  Bas- 
sett  thoughtfully.  "  Mayoe  I'm  wrong." 

"  Life's  full  of  surprises.  That's  what  makes  it 
interesting.  But  that  butters  no  turnips.  I  didn't 
come  here  to  give  you  some  new  ideas  about  life. 
What  I  want  is  for  you  to  get  your  staff  together 
in  the  city  room,  say  about  five  o'clock,  for  fifteen 
minutes.  I  want  to  talk  to  the  boys.  Can  you  ar- 
range it?  " 

"  I  guess  the  world  won't  stop  moving." 

"  All  right.  See  you  later."  Good  put  his  hand 
on  the  door. 

"  Say,"  said  Bassett,  sharply  biting  his  lip,  "  have 
you  been  stringing  me?  " 

Good  laughed.  "  Call  up  John  Baker,  Miss 
Wynrod's  lawyer,  and  get  it  straight.  Don't  be  so 
suspicious." 

"  That's  my  business,"  said  Bassett,  sourly.  As 
the  door  closed  on  his  strange  visitor,  he  sighed 
heavily.  "  It's  a  great  business  .  .  .  sold  up  the 
river  —  damned  slave !  "  Then  he  sighed  again 
and  fell  to  sharpening  a  pencil. 

Promptly  at  five  Good  returned.  "  Got  them  all 
here?"  he  demanded. 

11  Nearly  all." 

"  That's  fine.     Let's  break  the  news." 

Bassett  lead  the  way  to  the  city  room,  and  with  a 
clap  of  his  hands  achieved  silence.  "  Boys,"  he 


"IF  PEOPLE  ONLY  KNEW  I"        181 

said  in  a  tone  which  was  curiously  unfamiliar  to 
them,  "  you  probably  all  know  by  now,  being  good 
news-hounds,  that  the  paper  has  been  sold.  Mr. 
Brent  Good,  the  new  managing  editor,  wishes  to 
say  a  few  words." 

Good  rose  and  stood  looking  thoughtfully  at  the 
crowd  for  a  moment  before  he  spoke. 

"  Gentlemen,  the  habit  of  a  lifetime  is  hard  to 
break.  Mr.  Bassett  proves  it  by  the  way  he's  col- 
oured the  facts.  I'm  not  to  be  managing  editor. 
Mr.  Bassett  will  continue  in  that  capacity  as  long 
as  his  editing  and  managing  seems  to  be  satisfactory. 
I  am  merely  to  be  the  personal  representative  of  the 
owner  of  the  paper.  Now  I  have  one  or  two  things 
to  say  to  you. 

'  To  begin  with,  I  want  to  say  that  nobody  is  go- 
ing to  get  fired,  with  the  possible  exception  of  sev- 
eral men  from  the  advertising  department,  the  rea- 
son for  which  will  appear  later.  The  first  question 
that  Mr.  Bassett  put  to  me  was  about  the  policy  of 
the  new  paper,  and  I  replied  that  there  wouldn't  be 
any  policy.  All  we  have  is  a  purpose,  and  that  pur- 
pose is,  in  one  single  word,  to  tell  all  the  truth  all 
the  time. 

'  We  haven't  any  axes  to  grind.  And  there's 
only  one  boss.  For  the  first  time  in  your  lives,  I 
guess,  you  can  write  the  truth  without  being  afraid 
of  stepping  on  somebody's  toes.  From  now  on,  the 


1 82  THIRTY 

business  office  gives  no  orders.  And  if  the  advertis- 
ing department  can't  sell  space  without  editorial  in- 
fluence thrown  in,  then  we'll  get  a  new  advertising 
department  or  do  without  advertising.  Instead  of 
looking  at  every  story  with  your  mind  on  '  who  will 
it  hurt,'  from  now  on  I  want  you  to  look  at  every 
story  with  your  mind  on  '  who  will  it  help  —  or 
what.'  You  boys  have  a  chance  to  run  the  kind  of 
a  newspaper  that  every  newspaper  man  wants  to 
run.  It's  up  to  you  to  make  it  or  break  it." 
Good's  voice  broke  a  little  and  he  turned  away. 
There  was  silence  for  a  moment.  Then  a  cheer 
shook  the  room.  When  it  subsided,  Bassett's  dry 
voice  was  heard. 

"  Kindly  don't  overlook  the  fact,  gentlemen,  that 
we  put  the  paper  to  bed  to-night  as  usual.  You 
can  celebrate  when  that's  done."  Then  he  turned 
to  Good. 

"  Come  back  in  my  office,  will  you,  Mr.  Good. 
There  are  a  few  questions  I  want  to  ask  you." 

"  Cut  out  the  *  Mister,'  Bassett.  I'm  just  one  of 
the  staff.  I  don't  own  anything,  you  know." 

'  That  goes  with  me,"  said  Bassett,  "  but  look 
out  I  don't  call  you  something  worse.  I've  got  a 
bad  temper." 

"  Well,"  laughed  Good,  "  I'm  bigger  than  you." 
They  went  into  Bassett's  private  office. 


"IF  PEOPLE  ONLY  KNEW!"        183 

"  What  I  want  to  get  at,"  said  the  latter  per- 
plexedly, after  they  were  seated,  "  is  what  line  of 
thought  you  intend  to  follow.  What  angles  do  you 
mean  to  push?" 

"  You  don't  understand,"  said  Good  patiently, 
"  all  we  want  is  the  truth." 

"  Oh,  fiddlesticks,"  cried  Bassett  impatiently. 
"  That's  fine  for  a  rights-of-man  declaration,  but 
we're  running  a  newspaper.  You've  got  to  have 
balance.  What's  true  and  interesting  and  desirable 
to  one  class  of  people  isn't  to  another.  What  kind 
of  people  do  you  intend  to  cater  to?  " 

"  I  see,"  said  Good.  He  was  silent  for  a  mo- 
ment. "  I  guess  we  want  to  print,"  he  said  finally, 
"  what's  true  to  most  people.  Anything  that  gives 
the  greatest  good  to  the  greatest  number,  ought  to 
be  our  field." 

"  That's  what  I'm  getting  at.  Now  look  at  this." 
The  managing  editor  fumbled  in  his  desk  and  pro- 
duced a  mass  of  paper.  "  You  probably  know  that 
the  girls  in  the  department  stores  are  trying  to  stage 
a  strike.  It  doesn't  amount  to  much  —  yet  —  but 
the  police  have  pulled  some  pretty  raw  work.  Now 
from  the  girls'  standpoint  this  stuff  ought  to  get 
publicity.  But  from  the  standpoint  of  those  who 
own  the  newspapers  it  shouldn't  —  and  it  hasn't  had 
a  line  except  in  The  World,  which,  of  course,  only 


1 84  THIRTY 

goes  to  the  working  people.  Incidentally,  The 
World  has  been  running  some  pretty  good  sob-stuff 
lately." 

"  Yes,"  said  Good  quietly,  "  I  wrote  it." 

Bassett  looked  up  quickly.  "Oh  —  are  you  one 
of  that  socialist  outfit?  " 

"  No  more  socialist  than  you  are  plutocrat.  I'm 
just  a  newspaper  man  —  like  yourself." 

"  Conscienceless,  eh?  " 

"  Consciences  are  expensive." 

'  Yes,"  said  Bassett  pensively,  "most  ,of  us  have 
to  let  the  little  darlings  starve  to  death.  I  bet  if 
we  slipped  into  the  next  life  with  a  murderer  and  a 
thief,  St.  Peter'd  give  'em  both  a  golden  harp 
and  .  .  ." 

"  Oh,  cheer  up,"  laughed  Good,  "  let's  not  worry 
about  preferred  positions  in  the  next  edition. 
We've  got  plenty  to  do  with  this  one." 

"  Well,  then,"  said  the  small  man,  "  how  about 
playing  up  this  working  girl  stuff  as  a  starter  on  the 
new  idea?  That  ought  to  appeal  to  you." 

"  I'm  afraid  you  don't  quite  understand,"  ex- 
plained Good  patiently.  "  This  isn't  going  to  be  an 
organ  of  the  working  classes." 

"  That's  all  right,  too,  but  in  your  talk  out  there 
to  the  boys  you  said  you  were  going  to  print  all  the 
truth  all  the  time.  Well,  this  is  true  and  people 
certainly  ought  to  know  about  it.  Those  girls  are 


"IF  PEOPLE  ONLY  KNEW!"        185 

getting  a  hell  of  a  rotten  deal.     What  about  it?" 

Good  was  silent.  "  Frankly,  I  don't  know,"  he 
murmured. 

"  I  know  what  you're  thinking,"  said  Bassett  with 
a  suggestion  of  a  sneer.  "  We're  carrying  full  pages 
for  Corey's  and  the  rest.  But  I  thought  you 
weren't  going  to  take  orders  from  the  business  of- 
fice." 

"  We're  not,"  said  Good.  "  But  we  have  to  take 
our  orders  from  Miss  Wynrod." 

"That's  right,"  agreed  Bassett.  "I  hadn't 
thought  of  that.  Well,  why  don't  you  put  it  up  to 
her?" 

"By  Jove,"  cried  Good,  "I  will!  I'll  do  just 
that.  You  get  your  stuff  together.  I'll  see  her  to- 
night and  get  her  O.K.  —  if  I  can." 

"  Here's  a  suggestion,"  said  the  managing  edi- 
tor; "  it  may  help  to  get  her  interested.  The  girls 
are  going  to  hold  a  meeting  out  on  Dempsey  Street. 
Why  don't  you  take  Miss  Wynrod  out  there  and  let 
her  see  for  herself?  If  she's  any  kind  of  a  girl 
she'll  hear  some  yarns  that'll  wilt  her  collar,  I'll  bet." 

Good  was  thoughtful.  "  That's  not  a  bad  idea. 
I'll  see  what  I  can  do."  He  turned  to  go.  Then 
he  looked  back  from  the  doorway.  "  By  the  way, 
Bassett,  I  forgot  to  tell  you  —  Miss  Wynrod  has 
a  young  brother.  He's  been  a  waster  so  far,  but 
I  think  he's  got  some  good  stuff  in  him.  Anyway, 


1 86  THIRTY 

he's  coming  into  the  paper  too.  Of  course  he 
doesn't  know  anything  about  newspapers  —  he 
doesn't  know  anything  about  anything  —  but  he  can 
learn.  I  thought  it  would  be  best  to  start  him  in 
the  business  office.  What  do  you  think?  " 

"  That's  the  most  important  place  to  him,"  said 
Bassett  sourly.  "  Keep  him  out  of  this  end  of  it, 
for  the  love  of  Mike !  Jenkins  loves  cubs ;  I  don't." 

"  I  think  you're  right;  anyway  we'll  start  him  with 
Jenkins.  And  I'll  let  you  hear  from  me  to-night 
in  plenty  of  time  about  this  story." 

"  The  bull-dog  closes  at  eleven." 

"  I'll  let  you  know  by  ten." 

As  Good  ate  his  frugal  dinner  in  a  cheap  restau- 
rant, he  debated  seriously  as  to  the  best  method  of 
attaining  his  end.  If  he  went  straight  to  Judith 
and  boldly  requested  her  acquiescence  in  the  course 
planned,  he  felt  quite  confident  of  securing  it.  But 
that  did  not  appear  to  him  sufficient.  Her  sym- 
pathies, thus  gained,  would  be  superficial.  To  be 
of  lasting  value  they  must  be  spontaneous.  Finally 
he  took  his  resolution  and  went  to  the  telephone. 

"  Miss  Wynrod,"  he  said  immediately  when  she 
answered,  "  there  is  to  be  a  meeting  on  the  west 
side  to-night  that  I'd  like  very  much  to  have  you 
attend.  I  am  sure  it  will  interest  you.  Will  you 
come?"  And  when  she  hesitated  momentarily  he 
added,  "  I  am  quite  sure  you  won't  regret  it."  To 


"IF  PEOPLE  ONLY  KNEW!"        187 

his  great  delight  she  assented  readily  enough,  and 
half  an  hour  later  he  found  himself  in  her  limousine 
with  her,  bound  for  a  section  of  the  city  that  was 
probably  as  unfamiliar  to  her  as  the  heart  of  China. 

Briefly  he  explained  the  character  of  the  meet- 
ing, but  diplomatically  he  held  back  his  real  purpose 
in  taking  her  to  it.  She  was  frankly  interested, 
nevertheless,  and  plied  him  with  questions  regard- 
ing its  circumstances  and  causes,  to  which  he  was 
not  slow  in  making  reply. 

"  If  all  these  dreadful  things  are  true,  how  does 
it  happen  that  I  have  never  heard  about  them? 
There  has  never  been  anything  in  the  papers." 

"  No,"  he  assented,  smiling  in  triumph  under  cover 
of  darkness,  "  there  hasn't  been  anything  in  the 
papers.  That  is,"  he  added,  "  not  in  any  of  the 
papers  you  would  be  likely  to  read.  The  World 
has  had  some  stuff."  But  before  they  had  had  time 
to  discuss  the  question  further  the  car  had  reached 
its  destination.  Good  led  the  way  to  a  place  in  the 
balcony  where  they  not  only  had  a  good  view  of  the 
platform  but  could  see  the  crowd  below  as  well. 

A  red-headed  girl  was  playing  a  very  much  out- 
of-tune  piano  and  playing  it  very  badly.  But  over 
the  music,  and  almost  drowning  it  was  the  steady 
shuffle  of  feet,  and  a  rising  wave  of  whispers  and 
laughter  as  the  hall  rapidly  filled.  The  air  was 
heavily  odorous  and  the  gas  lights  flared  garishly, 


1 88  THIRTY 

thrusting  the  stark  shabbiness  of  the  hall  and  its 
occupants  into  high  relief.  But  all  that  was  for- 
gotten in  the  indefinable  emotion  which  surcharged 
the  atmosphere.  Without  knowing  exactly  why, 
Judith  felt  her  throat  tighten  and  her  heart  thrill 
But  it  was  an  old  story  to  Good  and  he  spent  his 
time  surreptitiously  watching  the  effect  of  the  scene 
upon  his  companion. 

Presently  the  speakers  of  the  evening  filed  onto 
the  platform,  and  one  of  them,  stepping  up  to  the 
table,  rapped  sharply  with  her  gavel.  She  was  a 
woman  just  approaching  middle  age,  very  plainly 
but  neatly  dressed,  with  a  face  not  handsome,  but  so 
full  of  quiet  determination  as  to  make  one  look 
twice. 

"  That's  Myra  Horgan,"  whispered  Good, 
"  President  of  the  Women's  Trade  Union  League. 
She's  a  wonder." 

Miss  Horgan,  with  a  few  words,  introduced  the 
first  speaker,  one  Casper,  of  the  Building  Trades 
Council.  He  was  a  little  man  with  a  beaming  red 
face,  and  stiff,  close-cropped  white  hair. 

"  When  they  talk  about  women  and  the  right  to 
vote,"  he  began,  surveying  the  audience  with  twin- 
kling eyes,  "  I  think  of  you  and  what  fools  you  be. 
But  you're  no  worse  than  unorganized  men.  Do 
they  work  us  brick-layers  and  masons  twelve  hours 
a  day,  nights  too?  They  do  not.  Do  they  pay  us 


"IF  PEOPLE  ONLY  KNEW!"        189 

six  dollars  a  week?  They  do  not.  Do  they  fire 
us  for  having  opinions  of  our  own?  They  do  not. 
Do  they  treat  us  as  human  beings  entitled  to  the 
same  respect  as  themselves?  They  do,  and  why? 
Because  we  ain't  one  but  many.  If  we  deal  with 
them  as  individuals  they  smash  us  as  you'd  smash  a 
toothpick.  But  they  can't  deal  with  us  as  individ- 
uals. They've  got  to  deal  with  us  altogether.  But 
one  thing  remember,  my  girls.  It's  a  fine  thing  to 
have  a  union  but  a  hard  thing  to  get  it.  You've  got 
to  suffer.  You've  got  to  give  up  things.  I  guess 
you  know  that  already.  But  you've  got  to  keep  at 
it.  It's  great  when  you  have  it,  but  it's  hell  get- 
ting it.  And  don't  forget  this.  You've  got  to 
stick  by  the  other  fellow  if  the  other  fellow  is  go- 
ing to  stick  to  you.  If  one  goes  out,  you've  all 
got  to  go  out,  and  stay  out  if  you  starve." 

He  sat  down,  wiping  his  brow  carefully,  amid  a 
thunder  of  applause  from  the  audience.  Suddenly  a 
thought  seemed  to  strike  him  and  he  jumped  up  with 
hand  uplifted.  The  crowd  silenced  at  once.  "  I 
forgot  to  tell  you  the  main  thing  for  why  I  came  here 
to-night,"  he  said  sheepishly.  "  I'm  no  orator,  as 
you  all  can  see.  Your  handsome  young  faces  drove 
the  thought  clean  out  of  my  mind.  But  this  I  will 
say,  I  am  here  to-night  to  tell  you  that  we  of  the  Fed- 
eration will  back  you  to  the  limit  with  money  and  in- 
fluence and  all  we've  got.  Go  to  it!"  Again  he 


1 90  THIRTY 

sat  down,  amid  a  repeated  burst  of  clapping  and 
cheers. 

"  No,"  said  Good.  "  He's  no  orator.  But  he's 
a  big  man.  They'll  get  somewhere  if  they  follow 
him." 

Speaker  after  speaker  followed  one  another  in 
rapid  succession,  each  with  her  message  of  fear,  or 
hope,  or  encouragement.  There  was  surprisingly 
little  denunciation,  thought  Judith,  of  the  powers 
against  whom  they  were  in  revolt.  All  the  speakers 
were  too  intent  upon  means  and  methods  to  waste 
breath  in  idle  denunciation.  She  expressed  her  as- 
tonishment. 

"  Their  feeling  for  their  employers  goes  without 
saying,"  said  Good  shortly. 

Suddenly  Judith  gave  a  little  cry.  "  Why,  there's 
Mrs.  Dodson."  A  woman,  inconspicuously  dressed 
and  well  on  in  years,  but  with  such  a  spirit  of  youth 
and  kindliness  in  her  face  as  to  belie  her  grey  hairs, 
had  begun  to  speak.  Her  first  words  were  the 
signal  for  such  a  storm  of  applause  that  she  had  to 
halt  momentarily. 

"  What  a  favourite  she  is!  "  exclaimed  Judith. 

"  She  has  cause  to  be,"  said  Good.  '  These  girls 
have  no  better  friend." 

"  Isn't  it  strange,"  said  Judith  in  amazement. 
"  I've  known  her  all  my  life.  I  had  no  idea  she  was 
so  interested  in  this  sort  of  thing." 


"  IF  PEOPLE  ONLY  KNEW!"        191 

Good  smiled.  "  She  doesn't  talk  much  about  it, 
does  she?  " 

Mrs.  Dodson,  speaking  with  trained  eloquence, 
was  laying  out  a  plan  of  campaign  so  bold  in  con- 
ception that  Judith,  acquainted  only  with  the  more 
obvious  side  of  her  life,  was  dumfounded. 

"If  the  people  who  know  her  uptown  could  hear 
her  now,"  she  cried,  "  they'd  be  stupefied.  They'd 
call  her  a  traitor  to  her  class." 

"  She  is  a  paradox,"  admitted  Good,  "  but  I  think 
this  is  her  truest  side."  And  the  prolonged  cheer- 
ing which  accompanied  the  conclusion  of  her  words 
seemed  to  indicate  that  her  auditors  thought  so  too. 

There  was  a  little  pause  after  Mrs.  Dodson  had 
finished,  and  the  red-headed  young  person  at  the 
piano  resumed  her  activities.  But  the  delay  was 
only  momentary.  A  slender  girl,  plainly  dressed, 
apparently  not  over  nineteen  years  of  age,  with  her 
arm  in  a  sling,  made  her  way  to  the  front  of  the  plat- 
form. 

"  I'm  no  speaker,"  she  began  in  a  low  voice  but 
which  penetrated  to  the  farthest  part  of  the  hall, 
"  and  there  ain't  many  of  you  as  knows  me.  I'm 
only  a  picket.  I  can't  give  you  union  backing  like 
Mr.  Casper,  and  I  can't  give  you  money  like  Mrs. 
Dodson,  and  I  can't  give  you  ideas  like  Miss  Hor- 
gan.  All  I've  got  is  my  two  feet  and  my  two  hands 
and  my  tongue  —  though  my  tongue  ain't  as  good 


i92  THIRTY 

as  my  legs,  as  the  cop  that  pinched  me  will  tell  you. 
But  you've  all  been  thinking  and  talking  about  what 
you  was  going  to  do.  Now  I  want  to  tell  you  what's 
being  done  while  you're  talking.  Look  at  this  — " 
She  pointed  to  the  arm  that  was  in  the  sling.  "  This 
is  what  the  police  do.  The  copper  that  twisted 
my  arm  gets  his  pay  from  the  taxpayers,  but  he 
gets  his  orders  from  our  bosses.  I  got  this  for 
talkin'  to  girls  as  they  came  out  of  the  stores.  I  was 
lucky  not  to  get  anythin'  worse,  as  some  of  the  other 
girls  can  tell  you.  I  want  to  tell  you  girls,"  she 
clenched  her  fist  and  her  voice  shrilled,  "  that  the 
only  way  you'll  get  respect  out  of  these  capitalists 
is  to  force  it  out  of  'em,  and  a  good  many  of  you  is 
goin'  to  get  hurt  in  the  job." 

"How  horrible!  "  exclaimed  Judith  softly.  "  Is 
that  really  true?" 

*  Yes,"  said  Good,  "  it  is.  I  happen  to  know  the 
case.  The  doctors  say  that  her  arm  will  probably 
never  be  of  much  use  to  her  again.  A  detective 
twisted  her  wrist  for  not  moving  on  when  she  was 
ordered  to.  He  claimed  she  kicked  him." 

"And  I  hope  she  did!"  snapped  Judith  vindic- 
tively. Good  smiled  quizzically,  but  before  he 
could  say  anything  the  girl  on  the  platform  had 
resumed  speaking. 

"  I  wisht  I  could  tell  you  what's  in  my  mind,"  she 
said  slowly.  "  I  ain't  no  speaker,  but  this  is  the 


"IF  PEOPLE  ONLY  KNEW!"        193 

principal  thing  I  want  to  say  to  you  girls.  If  I  can 
stick  it  out  I  guess  you  can.  That's  about  all  I've 
got  to  say."  She  turned  and  fled  precipitately. 
There  was  not  much  handclapping  after  her  exit,  not 
because  she  had  not  aroused  sympathy  but  because 
exaltation  had  given  place  to  a  grim  determination 
better  expressed  in  silence.  There  was  a  momen- 
tary pause  in  the  proceedings.  Then  a  girl  stood  up 
in  the  crowd. 

"  I  want  to  tell  you  that  that  girl  is  right,"  she 
declared  fiercely.  "  My  sister  was  knocked  down 
by  a  copper  and  kicked  and  broke  one  of  her  ribs. 
If  you're  going  into  this  thing  you  want  to  go  with 
your  eyes  open."  As  she  sat  down,  another  rose, 
and  another  and  another,  until  half  a  dozen  girls 
had  given  their  experiences,  each  one  of  which 
brought  a  gasp  of  horror  to  Judith's  lips. 

"  Why,  this  is  dreadful,"  she  cried.  "  I  never 
dreamed  .  .  ." 

But  Good  merely  smiled  to  himself.  "  They've 
only  told  one  side  of  it,"  he  said.  "  There  are 
things  —  much  worse." 

Judith  shuddered  understandingly  but  said  noth- 
ing further  until  they  were  in  the  motor  on  the  way 
home.  "  I  never  heard  anything  more  terrible," 
she  cried,  "  or  more  surprising.  If  people  only 
knew,  such  things  couldn't  take  place.  Decent  peo- 
ple wouldn't  countenance  such  brutality." 


194  THIRTY 

"  No,"  admitted  Good,  "  but  decent  people  don't 
know  anything  about  it." 

"  And  why  don't  they?  "  she  demanded.  "  Why 
aren't  they  told?  Why  aren't  they  forced  to  know 
about  it?" 

"Would  you  suggest  a  house-to-house  canvass?" 
he  asked  ironically. 

"  Don't  be  silly.  Why  don't  the  newspapers  take 
it  up?" 

"  It  isn't  news  to  them." 

Then  the  obvious  thought  struck  her.  "  Why," 
she  laughed,  "  I  almost  forgot.  We  have  a  news- 
paper of  our  own.  Why  can't  we  tell  the  story  those 
girls  told,  in  The  Dispatch?  " 

"  For  the  same  reason  that  the  other  papers 
can't,"  he  said  softly. 

"And  what  is  that?" 

"  They  don't  dare." 

"  Don't  dare?     I'm  afraid  I  don't  understand." 

"  Who  has  the  keenest  interest  in  keeping  wrist- 
twisting  out  of  sight?  " 

"The  police?" 

"No.  Who  loses  if  the  girls  win?  Who  suf- 
fers if  they  organise,  raise  wages  and  improve  con- 
ditions?" 

"  Their  employers,  I  suppose." 

"Just  so.     And  who  are  their  employers?" 

"The  department  stores?" 


"IF  PEOPLE  ONLY  KNEW!"        195 

"Well,  then,  isn't  it  perfectly  clear?  Who  are 
the  newspapers'  heaviest  advertisers?" 

"  Oh,—" 

"  Miss  Wynrod,"  said  Good  seriously,  "  to 
champion  the  cause  of  those  girls  and  to  tell  the 
truth  about  what  they  are  suffering  might  cost  The 
Dispatch  —  a  great  deal  of  money." 

Judith  was  silent  for  a  moment.  "  In  other 
words,  we  are  hired  by  the  department  stores  to  be 
neutral." 

"  Precisely,"  said  Good. 

"  Suppose  we  snapped  our  fingers  at  them?" 

"  I've  already  told  you  what  would  happen." 

"  But  I  thought  you  wanted  a  free  newspaper?" 

"  I  did  and  do,  Miss  Wynrod." 

"  How  many  curious  things  I'm  learning,"  said 
Judith.  Then,  with  a  shudder,  she  added,  "  What 
a  dreadful  neighbourhood  this  is.  Did  you  ever  see 
so  many  children?  " 

"Do  children  make  neighbourhoods  dreadful?" 
he  asked  sarcastically,  nettled  by  her  irrelevance. 
But  she  was  silent,  remaining  so  until  they  reached 
downtown. 

"  I  think, —  if  you'll  let  me  off  at  The  Dispatch 
office  .  .  ."  said  Good  stiffly. 

Mechanically  she  gave  the  order  to  the  chauffeur 
but  made  no  reply.  He  wondered  what  was  going 
through  her  mind.  Her  silence  seemed  to  indicate 


196  THIRTY 

that  his  great  dream  had  been  shattered  before  it 
had  been  well  launched.  She  had  broken  at  the 
first  pressure.  He  might  have  expected  as  much. 
Environment  and  training  could  not  be  so  quickly 
counteracted.  But  none  the  less  it  was  bitterly  dis- 
appointing. He  dreaded  the  word  he  would  have 
to  give  to  Bassett. 

"  Good  night,  Miss  Wynrod,"  he  said  quietly  as 
the  car  stopped  and  he  got  out.  "  I  hope  you  found 
the  evening  not  unprofitable." 

"  Mr.  Good,"  said  Judith  slowly,  looking  at  him 
steadily,  "  I  want  everybody  who  reads  The  Dis- 
patch to-morrow  to  read  —  about  that  girl  and  her 
broken  arm.  Do  you  understand?  " 

His  eyes  widened.  "  And  you  know  the  con- 
sequences? "  he  whispered  huskily. 

"  I  think  you  have  made  them  quite  clear." 

"  You  have  friends  among  the  department  store 
owners,  Miss  Wynrod." 

Judith  smiled,  but  it  was  a  grim  smile.  "  I  think 
I  can  venture  where  Mrs.  Dodson  has  ventured," 
she  said.  Good  seized  her  hand  and  his  voice 
trembled. 

"I  was  afraid — for  a  moment,  but  —  you're  a 
wonder!  Good  night."  His  emotion  communi- 
cated itself  to  her  and  she  did  not  venture  to  say  any- 
thing in  reply.  She  merely  shook  his  hand  firmly 


"IF  PEOPLE  ONLY  KNEW!"        197 

and  sank  back  in  the  cushions.     He  turned  and  sped 
for  the  office. 

"  Bassett,"  he  said,  with  simulated  indifference  a 
minute  later,  "  let's  see  that  stuff  you've  got  on  the 
girls." 

'  You  mean,"   cried  Bassett,   "  you're   going  to 
run  it?" 

"  Double  leaded,"  said  Good  shortly.  "  Got  any 
pictures?  " 

"  Say,"  said  Bassett,  "  I've  got  some  stuff  that 
would  make  dynamite  look  like  lemon  candy.  We'll 
make  The  World  look  like  a  gospel  messenger. 
I'll  make  you  a  bet,  Good." 

"Yes?" 

"  I'll  bet  you  a  stein  of  imported  Muenchen  that 
there'll  be  hell  let  loose  to-morrow  in  several  ad- 
vertising offices  we  know  of." 

;'  Why  not  ask  me  for  it  outright?  "  asked  Good 
with  a  smile. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE  GREATEST  GAME  IN  THE  WORLD 

ON  the  day  set  for  the  beginning  of  Roger  Wynrod's 
business  career,  Good  introduced  him  to  the  more 
important  members  of  the  staff,  all  of  whom  ex- 
pressed their  profound  pleasure  at  making  his  ac- 
quaintance, and  without  further  conversation  de- 
parted to  more  pressing  duties.  Their  indifference 
rather  nettled  him,  but  he  consoled  himself  by  as- 
cribing it  to  the  high  pressure  under  which  news- 
paper offices  notoriously  laboured.  He  was  quite 
mollified,  however,  when  he  reached  the  door  of 
the  office  he  was  to  occupy,  and  found  his  name 
prominently  engrossed  upon  it  in  letters  of  gilt.  He 
was  also  much  pleased  with  the  furniture,  particu- 
larly the  desk,  a  tremendous  affair  of  mahogany, 
filled  with  all  manner  of  alluring  receptacles.  The 
office,  he  was  gratified  to  note,  while  not  large,  ap- 
peared more  or  less  private. 

"  Now  then,"  said  Good,  "  here's  your  shop. 
Get  to  work.  I'll  be  around  the  building  some- 
where if  you  need  me." 

Jenkins,  the  Business  Manager,  had  suggested, 
rather  diffidently,  that  a  good  way  to  begin  to  work 

198 


GREATEST  GAME  IN  THE  WORLD      199 

would  be  to  acquire  familiarity  with  the  files  of  the 
paper.  So,  after  making  a  cursory  examination  of 
his  more  material  surroundings,  he  attacked  the 
huge  volumes  which  he  found  on  his  table,  contain- 
ing, he  was  sure,  copies  of  The  Dispatch  for  at  least 
a  century  back. 

He  pursued  the  task  diligently  enough,  at  first, 
but  it  was  not  long  before  his  interest  flagged.  One 
issue  seemed  painfully  like  another.  It  was  very 
quiet  in  the  little  room,  and  as  he  sat  wearily  finger- 
ing the  dusty  sheets  he  felt  curiously  isolated  and 
futile.  The  conviction  gradually  settled  upon  him 
that  business  was  hardly  as  entertaining  as  it  had 
been  described.  By  eleven  o'clock  his  patience  was 
exhausted.  With  a  word  or  two,  more  vigorous 
than  elegant,  he  swept  the  bulky  tomes  upon  the 
floor,  and  went  in  search  of  Jenkins. 

The  Business  Manager  ran  his  hand  through  his 
hair  helplessly  when  Roger  stated  his  grievance. 

"  I've  been  awful  busy,  Mr.  Wynrod,"  he  said 
apologetically.  "  If  you'll  only  be  patient.  Just 
a  day  or  two  —  rushed  to  death  just  now,  don't  you 
know." 

"  In  a  day  or  two?  "  cried  Roger.  "  Good  Lord, 
man  —  two  hours  have  been  too  much  for  me. 
Something's  simply  got  to  happen  or  I'll  go  nutty!  " 

Jenkins  laughed,  though  not  very  mirthfully.  In- 
wardly he  was  a  seething  cauldron  of  wrath  at  the 


200  THIRTY 

fate  which  had  afflicted  him  with  so  useless  an  ap- 
pendage as  Mr.  Wynrod.  He  had  been  harassed 
enough  by  the  change  in  ownership,  without  that. 

But  fate  has  a  queer  way  of  settling  knotty  prob- 
lems very  suddenly  and  very  surprisingly.  As  Jen- 
kins laughed  and  cursed  behind  the  laugh,  a  boy  put 
a  card  on  his  desk. 

"  Maybe  Good  ...  he  might  have  something 
.  .  ."  he  said  to  Roger  abstractedly,  as  he  picked 
up  the  card.  "  Ask  Mr.  Good  to  step  down  here," 
he  called  after  the  retreating  boy.  "  Awful  rush 
these  days,"  he  murmured. 

Suddenly  his  whole  manner  and  expression 
changed  completely.  His  resigned  annoyance  was 
transformed  into  patent  excitement.  He  fingered 
the  card  nervously  for  a  moment.  Then  he  looked 
up  at  Roger,  his  brows  knitted. 

'  Would  you  mind  excusing  me  for  just  a  moment, 
Mr.  Wynrod?  There's  a  gentleman  here  to  see 
me  .  .  .  very  important  .  .  ." 

Roger  resisted  an  impulse  to  ask  who  the  gentle- 
man might  be  who  had  created  such  manifest  con- 
sternation, and  turned  to  leave.  But  as  he  put  his 
hand  to  the  door,  it  opened,  and  Good  entered. 

"  Hello,"  said  the  tall  man,  "  making  trouble 
around  here  already?  What's  the  ...  ?" 

Before  he  could  finish,  Jenkins  had  him  by  the 
arm  and  was  drawing  him  toward  the  window,  whis- 


GREATEST  GAME  IN  THE  WORLD     201 

paring  excitedly.  Roger  was  as  effectually  excluded 
from  the  conversation  as  if  he  had  not  existed.  As 
he  watched  the  animated  gestures  of  the  Business 
Manager  the  strange  thought  struck  him  that  he 
himself  was  the  subject  of  the  conference.  His  sus- 
picions were  confirmed  when  Good  whistled  softly, 
and,  turning  suddenly,  intimated,  in  a  voice  more 
authoritative  than  apologetic,  that  his  prompt  with- 
drawal would  be  appreciated.  Roger,  deeply  of- 
fended, was  about  to  comply,  when  the  door  opened 
again,  and  a  man  stood  on  the  threshold,  twirling 
his  mustache.  Jenkins  rushed  forward  to  greet  him. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Faxon,"  he  cried,  "how  are  you? 
Glad  to  see  you.  Sit  down,  won't  you?  I  ..." 

Faxon  ignored  the  proffered  chair.  "  Hello, 
Roger,"  he  said  abruptly,  "  the  boy  said  you  were 
here.  Thought  I'd  butt  in." 

"  Hello,  Joe,"  said  Roger,  striving  to  understand 
the  tense  atmosphere  which  seemed  to  pervade  the 
room.  "  I'm  just  bound  for  my  office.  Come  on 
up."  He  noticed  with  surprise  that  Jenkins  frowned 
and  shook  his  head  savagely  at  the  invitation. 
"  Come  on,  Joe,"  he  repeated,  resentful  at  Jenkins' 
behaviour. 

But  as  he  put  his  hand  on  the  door-knob,  Good 
rushed  into  the  breach.  "  One  moment,  if  you 
please,  Mr.  Faxon,"  he  said  smoothly.  "  Mr. 
Wynrod  is  hardly  familiar  enough  yet  with  things 


202  THIRTY 

here  to  be  of  use  to  you  in  —  er  —  matters  of  busi- 
ness." 

Faxon  wheeled  sharply  and  stared  as  if  he  had 
not  before  realised  the  tall  man's  presence. 
"  You'll  doubtless  leave  that  to  me  to  discover,  won't 
you?  "  he  inquired  with  studied  insolence.  Abruptly 
he  turned  again  to  Roger.  "  Now  then,  may  I  see 
you  —  alone?  " 

Roger's  eyes  wandered  from  one  to  the  other 
helplessly.  But  before  he  could  speak,  Good  came 
to  the  fore  again.  His  jaw  was  set  firmly  and  his 
eyes  were  cold. 

"  See  here,  Mr.  Faxon,"  he  said,  with  character- 
istic disdain  of  subtlety,  "  let's  not  mince  matters. 
Jenkins  and  I  know  perfectly  well  what  you're  here 
for.  Wynrod  doesn't.  I'd  suggest  that  we  talk 
things  over  together." 

"  Thanks  awfully  for  the  advice,"  snapped  Faxon 
sarcastically.  "  But  I'm  not  here  to  see  you  or 
Mr.  Jenkins.  I'm  here  to  see  Mr.  Wynrod.  And 
I'm  here  to  see  him  privately  —  you  hear  —  pri- 
vately. If  such  a  visit  is  not  contrary  to  the  rules 
of  the  office,  or  if  Mr.  Wynrod  is  allowed  to  decide 
such  matters  for  himself  .  .  ." 

Good  had  kept  his  gaze  fastened  on  Roger  as 
Faxon  spoke,  and  the  flood  of  colour  in  the  young 
man's  face  at  the  latter's  innuendo,  had  not  been 
lost  on  him.  "  You  need  say  no  more,  Mr.  Faxon," 


GREATEST  GAME  IN  THE  WORLD     203 

he  interrupted  suddenly.  Then  he  turned  to  Roger. 
"  Wynrod,"  he  said  slowly,  as  if  measuring  his 
words,  "  you  know,  I  believe,  who's  boss  of  this 
paper.  Act  accordingly."  With  a  low  bow  to 
Faxon  and  a  nod  to  Jenkins,  who  followed  him,  he 
left  the  room. 

"  If  you  know  who's  boss,"  said  Faxon  with  a 
sneer  as  the  door  closed,  "  they  apparently  don't." 

"  Appearances  are  frequently  deceiving,"  said 
Roger  shortly. 

"  I  hope  so,"  snapped  Faxon,  his  face  hardening, 
as  he  drew  a  folded  newspaper  from  his  pocket  and 
threw  it  on  the  desk.  "  Now  then,  my  boy,  I'd  like 
to  know  the  meaning  of  this?  " 

"  Of  what?  "  asked  Roger  quietly. 

"  Oh,  don't  stall." 

"  I'm  not  stalling." 

"  You  mean  to  say  you  don't  know?  "  demanded 
Faxon  with  honest  astonishment. 

"  You  haven't  seen  fit  as  yet  to  tell  me." 

"  This  sentimental  poppycock  you've  been  run- 
ning in  The  Dispatch  about  our  strike." 

"  And  what  about  it?" 

Faxon's  manner  changed  and  he  smiled  indul- 
gently. 

"  You  haven't  been  in  business  very  long,  Roger. 
There  are  some  things  you  don't  understand  very 
clearly." 


204  THIRTY 

"  Very  probably." 

"  But  there  are  some  things,  my  boy,  so  elemen- 
tary that  a  child  could  understand  them." 

"  In  other  words,"  said  Roger  coldly,  "  even  I." 

"  Yes,"  snapped  Faxon  brutally,  "  even  you." 

"  Well,  go  on." 

"  In  the  paper  this  morning  there  is  a  mess  of 
stuff,  probably  cooked  up  by  that  damn  fool,  Good, 
taking  the  side  of  those  girls  against  us.  Now  what 
I  want  to  know  is  the  meaning  of  it." 

"  The  meaning?  " 

'  Yes.     Are  you  on  our  side  or  on  theirs?  " 

"  My  dear  Faxon,"  said  Roger,  "  you  have  al- 
ready told  me  how  little  I  know  about  such  things. 
How  can  you  expect  me  to  answer  such  a  question 
as  that?  Mr.  Good  has  my  sister's  confidence  and 
mine.  If  he  ran  this  article,  I  believe  it  to  be  a  good 
article.  And  anyway,  who  the  hell  are  you  to  come 
here  asking  me  questions  like  that?"  The  young 
man's  temper  had  suddenly  ignited.  His  face  paled 
and  his  lips  became  set  in  a  thin  straight  line. 

Faxon  raised  his  hand.  "  Now  don't  get  sore, 
Roger,"  he  said  more  affably.  "  I  simply  want 
to  come  to  an  understanding  with  you,  so  we 
know  where  each  other  stands,  that's  all.  Were 
these  articles  printed  with  your  sanction  or  not?" 
he  asked  slowly,  tapping  on  the  desk  with  his  pencil. 


GREATEST  GAME  IN  THE  WORLD      205 

"  I  wasn't  consulted,"  said  Roger  simply;  "  that's 
not  my  business." 

"  Well,  damn  it,"  roared  Faxon,  losing  his  tem- 
per, "  it  ought  to  be  your  business !  Isn't  it  your 
business  to  prevent  a  lot  of  crack-brained  idiots  from 
making  a  fool  out  of  you?  " 

"  I  don't  see  that  they  are." 

"  Well,  everybody  else  sees  it.  Now  look  here, 
Roger.  We'll  overlook  it  this  time  because  it 
wasn't  done  with  your  knowledge  or  consent  and  you 
naturally  don't  understand  matters  very  clearly  yet. 
But  it  can't  happen  again,  you  hear.  We  won't 
stand  for  it." 

"And  who  is  supposed  to  be  talking?"  asked 
Roger  mildly. 

"  Who's  talking?  I'm  talking!  And  I'm  a  vice- 
president  of  Corey  &  Company.  That's  who's  talk- 
ing." 

Roger  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  lit  a  cigarette. 
"  Honestly,  Joe,  I  don't  get  you  at  all.  What's  all 
the  fuss  about  anyway?  " 

"  Good  God,  man,"  cried  Faxon  in  exasperation. 
He  drew  a  long  breath,  and,  drawing  his  chair  up 
closer  to  Roger's,  began  an  elementary  explanation 
of  certain  business  relationships. 

In  the  meanwhile  Bassett  and  Jenkins  and  Good 
sat  staring  moodily  at  one  another. 


206  THIRTY 

"It's  a  shame!"  exclaimed  Bassett,  savagely 
chewing  on  his  unlighted  cigar.  "  He'll  twist  that 
kid  around  his  finger.  He'll  pull  the  wool  over  his 
eyes  forty  different  ways." 

"  Faxon's  a  clever  fellow,"  mused  Jenkins  mourn- 
fully. 

Good  filled  his  pipe  and  lighted  it.  He  smoked 
in  silence  for  a  little  while. 

'  The  Lord's  got  to  be  trusted  some  time,"  he 
sighed  finally;  "  I  suppose  it  might  just  as  well  be 
now  —  but  a  little  more  priming  would  have  helped. 
Just  a  little  more." 

"  Oh,  the  kid  will  knuckle  under,  that's  certain," 
snarled  Bassett.  "  There's  no  doubt  of  that.  This 
whole  proposition  is  doomed  to  failure.  It's  too 
good  to  be  true,  altogether  too  good.  I  tell  you, 
Good,  you're  asking  too  much  of  these  people. 
You're  trying  to  make  water  rise  higher  than  its 
source.  You're  trying  to  make  them  prove  superior 
to  their  whole  history,  their  environment,  their 
friends,  everything  they've  got." 

"  People  prove  superior  to  those  things  every 
day,"  said  Good  mildly. 

"  Not  when  they  have  to  pay  as  big  a  price  as 
you're  asking." 

"  Don't  you  know  there  are  people  who  have  to 
be  made  to  pay  a  big  price  before  they  think  a  thing's 
worth  anything?  " 


'I  say,  you  know,"  he  said  between  puffs,  "business 
is  the — greatest — game — in  the  world" 


GREATEST  GAME  IN  THE  WORLD     207 

Bassett  snorted  and  bit  his  cigar  clear  through. 
"  You're  the  damnedest,  most  idiotic  optimist  I  ever 
hope  to  see !  "  he  cried.  Then  they  all  laughed 
cheerlessly  and  relapsed  into  their  moody,  waiting 
silence. 

At  that  very  moment,  in  Jenkins'  private  office, 
Roger  Wynrod  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and  lit 
another  cigarette.  He  puffed  thoughtfully  for  a 
moment  or  two  without  speaking. 

"  See  if  I've  got  this  straight,  Joe,"  he  said  finally. 
"As  I  understand  your  proposition,  it's  this:  As 
long  as  we  lie  down  and  play  good  dog,  we're  a  good 
advertising  medium.  When  we  get  up  and  bark  at 
something  we  think  ought  to  be  barked  at,  then 
we're  a  bad  advertising  medium." 

"  That's  one  way  of  expressing  it,  Roger," 
laughed  Faxon. 

Suddenly  the  young  man's  quiet,  thoughtful  de- 
meanour changed.  He  leaned  forward  and  his  jaw 
hardened.  "  In  other  words,  when  you  spend 
money  in  advertising  with  us  it's  merely  a  figure  of 
speech.  Your  advertising  appropriation  is  a  sort 
of  slush  fund.  It's  the  price  you  pay  for  keeping 
us  silent  on  things  you  want  kept  silent.  Is  that 
straight?" 

"  I  wouldn't  put  it  just  that  way.     But  .  .  ." 
'  Well,  then,  suppose, —  just  suppose,  mind  you, 
—  suppose  we  continue  on  the  line  of  thought  ex- 


208  THIRTY 

pressed  in  this  article  that  irritated  you  people  so 
much  this  morning,  what  then?  " 

Faxon  leaned  forward  and  his  fist  came  down 
on  the  desk  with  a  smash.  "  Wynrod,"  he  said 
sharply,  "  Corey  &  Company  has  less  than  six  thou- 
sand lines  of  its  contract  with  The  Dispatch  re- 
maining. If  you  continue  to  attack  us  in  this  way, 
I  can  inform  you  that  that  contract  will  not  be  re- 
newed." 

"  I  see,"  said  Roger  quietly. 

"  Furthermore,"  added  Faxon  in  the  same  hard 
tone,  "  the  contract  you  now  hold  with  Brooks,  Car- 
penter, Weinstein,  LeVigne  and  all  the  other  mem- 
bers of  the  department  store  association,  will  not 
be  renewed  as  they  expire." 

"  I  see.  And  if  orders  are  given  not  to  run  any- 
thing more  along  this  line,  what  then?  " 

Faxon  smiled.  "  In  that  case  I  can  inform  you 
that  the  pleasant  relations  that  have  hitherto  existed 
between  The  Dispatch  and  the  large  stores  of  this 
city,  will  continue  as  before." 

'  You  tempt  me,  Joe,"  said  Wynrod  in  what  was 
little  more  than  a  whisper,  but  with  an  inscrutable 
look  in  his  eyes.  Then  he  turned  and  walked  to 
the  window.  A  faint  smile  of  triumph  flitted  over 
Faxon's  features  as  he  watched  the  young  man's 
back.  Suddenly  Wynrod  turned  around.  "  Joe," 
he  said,  very  calmly  but  very  firmly,  "  you've  been 


GREATEST  GAME  IN  THE  WORLD     209 

frank  with  me,  and  now  I'll  be  the  same  with  you. 
There  are  at  least  half  a  dozen  reasons  why  I  would 
like  to  tell  you  to  go  to  hell,  but  there's  only  one 
necessary.  If  there  was  anything  needed  to  stiffen 
my  backbone,  it's  supplied  by  the  fact  that  you  can 
come  here  attempting  to  give  me  orders.  That 
won't  go,  Joe.  You  came  here  this  morning  and 
insisted  on  seeing  me  because  you  thought  you  could 
bully  me.  That's  why  you  wouldn't  talk  to  Jenkins 
or  Good.  But  you  haven't  sized  me  up  right,  Joe, 
and  you'd  better  run  back  to  Corey  just  as  fast  as 
you  can  and  tell  him  so." 

The  triumphant  smile  faded  from  Faxon's  face 
and  it  slowly  reddened.  "  That  means  .  .  ." 

"  Anything  you  choose  to  make  it,"  said  Roger 
quietly. 

Unexpectedly  Faxon  changed  his  tactics.  With 
a  friendly  smile  he  jumped  to  his  feet.  "  I  say, 
Roger,  you  don't  understand  what  you're  saying. 
There's  no  threatening  about  it.  This  is  just  a  plain 
business  talk,  pure  and  simple.  We're  friends. 
What's  the  use  of  getting  up  on  your  ear  and  talking 
like  that?  Do  you  realise  what  it'll  mean  to  your 
paper?  You  can't  afford  to  do  it.  I'm  not  talking 
to  you,  personally,  you  understand.  I'm  talking  to 
you  as  a  disinterested  outsider.  I'm  giving  you  a 
straight  tip.  I'm  trying  to  save  you  from  making 
a  fool  of  yourself,  don't  you  understand?  " 


210  THIRTY 

"  I  understand  perfectly,"  said  Roger.  u  There's 
nothing  to  be  said  further,  is  there?  " 

"  Come  now,"  insisted  Faxon.  "  Don't  be  a 
clam,  Roger.  Let's  discuss  this  thing  quietly  and 
get  to  the  bottom  of  it." 

"  I  have  nothing  further  to  say,"  said  Roger 
coldly.  "Have  you?" 

Faxon  looked  at  him  helplessly  for  a  moment  and 
when  he  saw  the  determination  plainly  evident  in  the 
young  man's  face  and  realised  that  there  was  no 
further  purpose  in  discussion,  he  took  his  hat. 
"  You're  a  fine  young  demigod  now,  Roger,"  he 
sneered.  "  But  wait.  Bigger  men  than  you  have 
tried  this  game  before.  They've  broken  —  every 
one  of  them." 

Faxon  paused  in  the  doorway  as  if  he  would  say 
more,  but  Roger  had  already  turned  his  back  upon 
him.  With  an  oath  he  slammed  the  door. 

"  I  wonder  what  he  takes  me  for,"  murmured 
Roger.  '  Thinks  I'm  a  child  does  he  ...  got 
another  think,  I  guess."  Then  he  went  in  search  of 
Good  and  Jenkins. 

His  sense  of  isolation  and  futility  seemed  to  have 
deserted  him  utterly.  For  the  first  time  in  his  life 
he  felt  himself  at  grips  with  a  man's  reality.  Dis- 
daining the  elevator  he  skipped  up  the  stairs  to 
Bassett's  office  with  his  heart  full  of  a  curious  exalta- 
tion such  as  he  had  never  experienced  before.  Like 


GREATEST  GAME  IN  THE  WORLD     211 

a  boy,  but  feeling  very  much  a  man,  he  burst  into  .the 
editor's  office. 

"  Good  Lord,"  he  cried,  as  he  saw  their  sombre 
countenances,  "  who's  dead?  " 

"Well,  what  happened?"  asked  Jenkins  per- 
functorily, as  if  he  knew  the  answer  already. 

"  Oh,  we  fixed  things  up  beautifully,"  said  Roger, 
lightly. 

"  Of  course,"  muttered  Bassett  under  his  breath, 
"  I  knew  you  would." 

Though  Good  did  not  speak,  the  question  was  in 
his  expression.  Roger  saw  it,  and  a  light  came 
into  his  eyes  which  none  of  them  had  ever  seen  there 
before. 

"  I  hope  you've  got  some  more  of  that  stuff  on  the 
girls  for  to-morrow,"  he  said  quietly.  "  Go  after 
'em  strong." 

Then,  while  the  others  sat  thunderstruck,  he  drew 
a  cigarette  from  his  case  and  lighted  it,  deliberately. 

"  I  say,  you  know,"  he  said,  between  puffs,  "  busi- 
ness is  the  —  greatest  —  game  —  in  the  world." 


CHAPTER  IX 

BURNED  BRIDGES 

IMRIE'S  impulsive  resignation  from  St.  Viateur's  was 
not  treated  at  all  seriously  by  the  vestry.  "  The 
natural  impetuousness  of  youth,"  observed  Mr. 
Corey,  not  a  little  virtuously;  for  Mr.  Corey  had 
never  been  impetuous  in  his  life.  The  other  gentle- 
men quite  agreed  with  him. 

Judge  Wolcott  was  magnanimous.  "  For  my 
part,  I  believe  in  letting  bygones  be  bygones." 

Mr.  Aishton,  who  was  very  thin  and  dry,  giving 
the  curious  impression  of  never  having  experienced 
youth,  was  more  explicit.  "  It's  new  ideas  —  un- 
assimilated,"  he  declared.  "  His  years  make  him 
restive.  A  little  guidance  —  that  is  all  —  merely 
guidance !  " 

Mr.  Podgers  was  the  only  hesitant  one.  He  was 
very  large  and  rubicund,  with  a  resonant  voice  and 
a  gusty  dominant  manner.  He  was  extremely  rich 
and  entirely  self  made,  with  the  process  still  some- 
what incomplete.  Most  of  his  life  had  been  devoted 
to  the  single-handed  task  of  besting  his  fellow  men, 
and,  until  success,  with  its  automobiles  and  ten  serv- 
ants and  social  responsibilities,  had  arrived,  matters 

212 


BURNED  BRIDGES  213 

theological  had  been  of  absolute  unimportance. 
Now,  however,  he  was  quite  the  most  orthodox  mem- 
ber of  the  vestry,  which,  to  be  sure,  was  very  desir- 
able in  one  whose  contributions  were  so  large. 
There  was  really  nothing  illogical  or  surprising  in 
the  fact  that  faith  and  a  set  of  ancestors  came  to 
Mr.  Podgers  simultaneously  with  his  distinction  as  a 
manufacturer  of  therapeutic  alcohol. 

"  I  am  not  at  all  in  favour,"  he  said  with  profound 
conviction,  "  of  permitting  even  slightly  lax  doctrine 
to  gain  currency.  The  faith  must  be  kept  pure. 
The  Church  must  be  preserved.  Otherwise  .  .  ." 
Mr.  Podgers  did  not  deign  to  indicate  what  shock- 
ing things  might  eventuate.  That  the  others  shared 
his  apprehension  was  evident  from  their  knitted 
brows  and  shaking  heads. 

But  Mr.  Podgers,  having  expressed  his  opinion 
and  made  clear  his  unimpeachable  conservatism,  was 
anxious  to  get  back  to  business,  where  conservatism, 
a  little  of  which,  after  all,  went  a  very  long  way, 
was  not  so  necessary.  So  he  rose. 

"  I  think  Mr.  Imrie  can  be  informed  that  his 
resignation  will  not  be  accepted." 

"  Undoubtedly,"  echoed  Mr.  Campbell,  who  was 
Mr.  Podgers'  legal  adviser,  though  he  took  more 
advice  than  he  gave.  "  I  think  no  one  questions 
that."  He  surveyed  the  others  as  if  daring  anyone 
to  question  it.  No  one  did. 


2i4  THIRTY 

"  I  will  talk  to  him  again,"  said  Judge  Wolcott. 
"  Like  a  father,"  he  added  benevolently. 

The  other  gentlemen  accepted  his  suggestion  with 
alacrity.  Aside  from  a  reluctance  at  wasting  valu- 
able time  in  such  a  comparatively  unimportant  mat- 
ter, there  was  a  natural  distaste  for  the  possibility 
of  unpleasantness.  It  was  quickly  decided,  there- 
fore, that  the  Judge  should  be  the  vestry's  vehicle  of 
"  guidance." 

Filled  with  confidence  and  the  best  of  intentions, 
he  visited  the  clergyman  without  delay.  Remem- 
bering his  former  discomfiture,  he  began  very  tact- 
fully. Imrie  listened  quietly  while  he  dilated  upon 
the  generosity  and  tolerance  of  the  vestry  .  .  .  and 
then,  instead  of  being  grateful  and  humiliated,  as 
might  reasonably  have  been  expected,  said  that  he 
"  would  see." 

To  cover  his  surprise  and  irritation,  the  Judge 
went  all  over  it  again,  and  this  time  Imrie  "  hoped 
for  the  best."  It  was  very  unsatisfactory.  It  was 
with  considerable  asperity  that  he  advised  the  young 
man  "  not  to  be  impossible." 

So  far  from  being  properly  impressed  by  the 
generosity  and  tolerance  of  the  vestry,  and  there- 
fore reverting  to  his  former  eloquent  innocuousness, 
Imrie  improved  the  following  Sunday  with  a  more 
or  less  dispassionate  analysis  of  the  relations  exist- 
ing between  a  clergyman  and  what  he  had  the  ex- 


BURNED  BRIDGES  215 

treme  bad  taste  to  call  his  "  employers."  He  drew 
analogies  which  were  extraordinarily  tactless  and 
unpleasant,  and,  as  Mrs.  Aishton,  a  very  refined 
woman,  said  afterward,  made  her  regret  that  her 
daughter  was  present. 

Mr.  Podgers  shook  his  head,  but  said  nothing. 
Therefore  Mr.  Campbell  also  said  nothing.  But 
Judge  Wolcott  talked  a  great  deal.  And  the  rest 
of  the  vestry  talked  a  great  deal  too,  though  there 
was  no  meeting. 

But  when  on  the  next  Sunday  Dr.  Imrie  cast  all 
decent  discretion  aside  and  said  things  concerning 
"  Hypocrisy "  so  crudely  that  even  the  stupidest 
of  his  congregation  could  understand,  and  even  the 
most  tolerant  could  not  evade ;  and  when  that  dread- 
ful sermon  was  followed  by  one  on  "  Charity  "  in 
which  absolutely  all  the  bonds  of  good  taste  were 
shattered,  Mr.  Podgers  ceased  shaking  his  head  and 
spoke.  Then  Mr.  Campbell  spoke,  and  a  meeting 
was  held. 

"  He  is  insane,"  said  Mr.  Podgers  with  a  finality 
which  indicated  a  profound  familiarity  with  all 
forms  of  mental  aberration. 

"  Quite,"  agreed  Mr.  Campbell,  as  if  it  was  al- 
most too  obvious  for  comment. 

"  It  is  outrageous,"  declared  Mr.  Corey  with  a 
vindictiveness  which  contrasted  strangely  with  his 
white  hair  and  pink  cheeks  and  twinkling  little  blue 


216  THIRTY 

eyes.  But  it  must  be  remembered  that  the  barbs  of 
the  clergyman's  inexcusable  tactlessness  had  lodged 
rather  definitely  in  Mr.  Corey's  bosom. 

A  verdict  was  passed  of  greater  or  less  severity, 
according  to  individual  temperament.  Mr.  Podgers 
was  quite  impersonal,  but  positive,  as  befitted  an 
upholder  of  pure  faith.  Mr.  Campbell,  for  obvious 
reasons,  was  even  more  positive.  Mr.  Corey  was 
frankly  personal.  Judge  Wolcott  was  the  most  re- 
gretful. Yet  even  he  could  not  overlook  what  he 
termed  Imrie's  "  ingratitude."  He  felt  that  the 
young  man  should  be  "  disciplined,"  though  he  was 
vague  as  to  the  method.  It  was  finally  decided, 
upon  the  suggestion  of  Mr.  Campbell,  that  Mr. 
Podgers  should  write  the  clergyman  a  note. 

Mr.  Podgers  honestly  intended  his  note  to  be  a 
sort  of  premonitory  reprimand.  But  his  life  had 
unfitted  him  for  delicate  intimations.  The  words 
which  left  him  as  carefully  wrought  subtleties 
reached  Imrie,  in  some  occult  fashion,  as  bald  com- 
mands. The  answer  was  made  accordingly.  Its 
effect,  of  course,  was  to  remove  any  lingering  toler- 
ance on  the  part  of  the  vestry,  and  his  second  resig- 
nation was  solemnly  accepted.  The  young  man  was 
called  in,  after  the  decision,  in  order  to  hear  their 
"  deep  regret "  that  he  was  "  going  to  leave  them." 
He  listened  patiently  to  their  assurances  of  admira- 
tion, shook  hands  punctiliously  with  each  one,  handed 


BURNED  BRIDGES  217 

over  all  his  accounts  and  plans,  and  went  back  to  his 
room  to  think  about  it. 

He  was  not  sorry  that  the  break  had  come.  It 
had  been  inevitable,  he  realised,  from  the  moment 
that  Judith's  contempt  had  driven  him  to  put  himself 
to  the  test.  To  prove  her  wrong  he  had  proven  him- 
self wrong,  and  his  whole  life  was  upset  thereby. 
The  smoothly  running  engine  had  stopped  short. 
But  characteristically  he  put  all  thought  of  its  pre- 
vious smooth  running  out  of  his  mind  and  devoted 
himself  to  a  consideration  of  its  present  inaction. 

At  this  crisis  he  felt  neither  need  nor  desire  for 
friends.  None,  he  realised  clearly,  could  possibly 
understand  or  assist.  He  did  not  yet  entirely  un- 
derstand himself.  But  he  knew  that  whether  he 
wanted  friends  or  not,  he  could  not  well  avoid  them. 
The  more  candid  would  upbraid  him  and  attempt 
conciliation :  the  more  tactful  would  be  sympathetic. 
Both  he  dreaded.  So,  after  a  day  of  meditation, 
in  which  his  thoughts  merely  moved  in  a  circle,  he 
put  a  few  essentials  into  a  bag,  stored  the  rest  of  his 
belongings,  and  disappeared,  with  a  rod  and  a  gun, 
into  the  north  woods. 

There,  while  his  memory  in  St.  Viateur's  grew 
more  vague  and  less  fragrant,  in  contrast  to  the 
ductile  genius  of  his  successor,  and  with  only  an 
Indian  guide  for  company,  he  spread  out  the  map 
of  his  soul  and  planned  his  campaign. 


218  THIRTY 

The  first  possibility  was  the  most  obvious.  But 
it  was  the  least  attractive.  To  be  true  to  what  he 
now  conceived  to  be  his  real  self  would  involve 
merely  a  repetition  of  his  experience  at  St.  Viateur's. 
He  was  young  and  comparatively  inexperienced,  and 
it  never  occurred  to  him  that  all  churches  were  not 
alike.  The  result  would  be  one  living  after  another, 
all  in  a  constantly  descending  scale,  until  he  either 
capitulated  or  died.  Neither  prospect  appealed  to 
him.  Night  after  night  was  spent  with  his  pipe  and 
the  unwinking  stars,  but  he  came  no  nearer  to  a 
decision. 

Finally  he  despaired  of  finding  salvation  in  soli- 
tude, and  went  back  to  the  city.  He  established 
himself  in  a  hotel,  preferring  to  avoid  friends  and 
relatives,  few  of  whom,  he  felt,  could  possibly 
sympathise  with  him. 

It  is  said  that  every  criminal  sooner  or  later  visits 
the  scene  of  his  crime.  Some  such  spirit  actuated 
Imrie.  The  day  after  his  arrival  in  the  city  was 
Sunday,  and  late  in  the  morning,  at  an  hour  when  he 
knew  that  the  congregation  would  be  settling  back 
in  resignation  preparatory  to  the  sermon,  he  strolled 
up  to  St.  Viateur's. 

But  he  did  not  enter.  He  preferred  to  stand 
across  the  street,  and  muse.  It  was  not  a  beautiful 
building.  Squat,  massive,  in  places  heavily  ornate, 
in  others  dingily  bare,  it  was  a  mere  surface  replica 


BURNED  BRIDGES  219 

of  pristine  architecture,  at  best,  a  caricature.  It  was 
a  pretence  even  if  a  candid  one.  It  struck  him  with 
shocking  force  that  its  grim  insincerity  was  symbolic. 
Within  its  counterfeit  solidity,  wood  and  tin  mas- 
querading as  stone,  machine-made  carving  strutting 
in  fancied  kinship  to  the  inspired  craftsmanship  of 
mediaeval  ornament,  dwelt  a  faith  equally  false, 
equally  dead.  Superficially  it  had  not  changed 
through  the  centuries :  but  the  soul,  the  true  life  had 
gone  from  it.  As  the  building  was  but  the  grinning 
skull  of  art,  so  the  faith  within  its  walls  was  but  the 
dry  and  rattling  bones  of  truth. 

Those  days  in  the  changeless  solitude  of  the  forest, 
where  the  God  in  the  brown  mists  and  the  everlasting 
purple  hills,  was  too  near  to  be  worshipped,  where 
Pan  was  more  divine  than  Jehovah,  had  expanded 
Imrie's  soul  more  than  he  realised. 

A  veil  he  knew  then,  had  covered  his  eyes.  He 
had  seen  truth  with  others'  eyes.  He  had  preached 
a  truth  which  was  his  only  by  reflection.  Now,  for 
the  first  time  in  his  life,  he  was  exultantly  conscious 
of  seeing  things  with  his  own  eyes. 

St.  Viateur's,  which  had  once  been  so  inspiring, 
was  now  only  pitiful.  Even  its  successor,  more  vital 
as  a  work  of  art,  would  still  house  but  a  ghost  of 
truth. 

He  stared  with  a  new  wonder  at  the  motor-cars, 
hurrying  past,  at  a  wireless  telegraph  station  in  the 


220  THIRTY 

distance,  thrusting  its  antennae  into  the  illimitable 
skies.  How  could  he  have  ever  been  so  blind!  In 
all  the  world  —  and  on  it  and  over  it  —  man  was 
ever  seeking  truth  and  finding  it.  Always,  like  the 
wireless,  he  was  pushing  his  antennae  into  uncharted 
space,  never  resting  content  with  the  achievements 
of  yesterday.  It  was  only  in  the  St.  Viateurs'  that 
men  still  sat  mumbling  forgotten  ritual,  praying  to 
shattered  idols,  rotting  in  the  darkness.  Outside, 
in  the  sunshine,  the  world  forged  ahead,  living  al- 
ways in  struggle,  dying  only  in  content. 

His  had  been  death  in  life,  thought  Imrie  with 
somthing  between  a  thrill  and  a  shudder.  But  there 
were  years  left  to  him  yet.  He  threw  back  his 
shoulders  and  set  his  jaws  as  he  turned  homeward. 

For  the  first  time  he  felt  that  he  had  a  key  to  the 
great  mystery  of  life.  Paradox  vanished,  conflict 
dissolved.  It  seemed  amazingly  simple.  His  call 
to  the  ministry  was  a  phenomenon,  an  aberration  of 
adolescence.  He  still  looked  upon  it  with  tender- 
ness, but  no  longer  with  seriousness.  Beside  this 
new  call  now  sounding  bell-like  in  his  heart,  that 
other  was  but  a  beating  of  pans  to  drive  the  ghosts 
away,  an  empty  relic  of  childhood.  To  expound 
creeds  was  a  petty  matter  of  business.  He  had  been 
no  nobler  than  the  barrister  who  seeks  to  make  right 
the  wrong  of  his  client  for  a  consideration  of  sundry 
pieces  of  silver.  He  had  been  a  mere  tradesman  in 


BURNED  BRIDGES  221 

the  things  of  the  soul.  It  had  seemed  enough. 
Now,  crystal-clear,  stretched  the  true  road  toward 
which  he  was  summoned.  He  had  dallied  long  and 
comfortably  in  the  well-tilled  fields  of  the  Past:  he 
was  called  now  to  the  hard,  never-ending  conquest  of 
the  Future.  He  would  learn  the  Truth,  and  it  would 
set  him  free  .  .  .  and  then,  mayhap,  he  would  set 
others  free. 

He  was  restless  that  evening,  after  dinner.  The 
self-imposed  solitude  of  the  hotel  had  begun  to  be 
irksome.  Forgetting  momentarily  that  it  was  Sun- 
day, he  decided  to  visit  a  theatre.  But  as  he  ran 
through  the  blatant  announcements  of  plays,  an  in- 
conspicuous little  advertisement  caught  his  eye. 

Half  an  hour  later,  in  consequence  of  what  he  felt 
was  a  veritably  inspired  accident,  he  was  in  a  theatre, 
listening  to  a  sermon  by  a  man  who  repeatedly  as- 
sured his  audience  that  he  was  not  a  clergyman. 

Imrie  noticed  with  surprise  that  the  congregation 
was  largely  of  men,  and  the  thought  struck  him  with 
unpleasant  force  that  they  were  present  quite  en- 
tirely of  their  own  volition.  He  wondered  ironi- 
cally how  many  people  would  attend  St.  Viateur's  if 
there  were  no  social  ends  to  be  achieved. 

The  man  who  sat  next  to  him  answered  some  of 
the  questions  which  rose  in  his  mind.  He  was  about 
his  own  age,  keen-featured,  nervously  alert,  very 
fashionably  dressed,  a  type  more  often  found  on  the 


222  THIRTY 

golf  links  than  in  church  on  Sunday  mornings. 
Often,  thought  Imrie  with  a  kind  of  shame,  he  had 
himself  preached  against  the  "  agnosticism,"  the 
"  irreligion,"  the  "  spiritual  indifference,"  of  such 
men.  But  this  man's  obviously  profound  attention 
to  a  mere  sermon  was  a  little  bewildering. 

From  him  Imrie  learned  that  the  speaker  was  a 
Jew,  formerly  a  rabbi,  who  had  established  a 
"  church  "  in  a  distant  city,  which,  though  without 
wealth  or  machinery  of  any  sort,  even  to  a  home  of 
its  own,  never  had  a  vacant  seat,  and  had  become 
a  powerful  factor  in  civic  affairs. 

The  stranger's  familiarity  with  the  speaker's  his- 
tory, and  his  manifest  enthusiasm,  were  as  surpris- 
ing as  they  were  significant,  and  as  Imrie  cast  his  eyes 
around  the  hall,  he  saw  many  like  him.  It  struck 
him  unpleasantly  that  men  of  this  sort  had  not  been 
numerous  in  his  own  congregation. 

After  the  service,  moved  by  an  impulse  which  he 
did  not  stop  to  analyse,  he  made  his  way  to  the  plat- 
form, introduced  himself  to  the  speaker,  and  asked 
permission  to  call  upon  him  at  his  hotel.  It  was  an 
act  very  foreign,  he  realised,  to  what  he  had  always 
thought  his  natural  reserve.  But  the  spirit  which 
impelled  him  was  as  strong  as  it  was  novel.  Per- 
haps, he  reflected,  it  was  only  necessity.  He  needed 
aid.  Something  told  him  that  Dr.  Weis  could 
give  it. 


BURNED  BRIDGES  223 

The  next  afternoon  he  presented  himself  before 
the  former  rabbi,  and  without  hesitation  told  him 
everything  of  the  quandary  in  which  he  found  him- 
self, omitting  nothing  of  the  circumstances  which  had 
brought  it  about. 

Weis,  a  compact  little  man,  with  snapping  black 
eyes  and  a  combative  mouth,  listened  attentively, 
never  taking  his  half-smiling  gaze  from  Imrie's  face. 
'  The  similarity  is  —  remarkable,"  he  said  softly 
when  the  recital  was  finished.  Then  he  added 
crisply:  "Well,  young  man,  what  do  you  propose 
doing  —  next?  " 

"  I  came  to  ask  you  that  question,"  said  Imrie 
briefly. 

The  little  rabbi  pursed  his  lips  thoughtfully. 
"  So  —  you  came  to  ask  me.  Well,  I  have  answered 
it.  I  moved  on  —  yes.  But  it  is  a  hard  answer  — 
oh,  quite  hard." 

He  was  silent  for  a  moment,  snapping  his  finger- 
nails one  against  another.  Suddenly  he  looked  up. 

"  Do  you  wish,"  he  demanded,  "  to  be  a 
preacher?"  He  paused  and  bored  Imrie  with  his 
sharp  little  eyes.  "  Do  you  wish  to  sway  the  multi- 
tudes with  your  eloquence?  It  is  applause  —  yes  — 
you  seek?  You  want  your  church  —  or  the  people's 
church  .  .  .  what?  " 

"  I'm  afraid  I  don't  quite  .  .  ." 
You    must    understand,"    said    Weis    bluntly. 


u 


224  THIRTY 

"  It's  quite  essential.  You  wish  to  free  yourself 
from  dogmatic  vestries.  Very  well  —  will  you  sub- 
stitute for  dogmatic  vestries,  your  dogmatic  self  — 
yes?  "  And,  when  Imrie  looked  a  little  crestfallen, 
he  added  with  a  smile,  u  We're  all  dogmatic,  my 
young  friend.  To  all  of  us  freedom  is  the  right  to 
rule  others." 

"  What  is  the  alternative?  " 

"  There  is  a  plan  —  I've  thought  of  it  often. 
You  want  to  avoid  a  bureaucratic  Church.  You 
must  not  founder  in  the  Charybdis  of  an  autocratic 
one.  You  have  means  of  your  own?  " 

Imrie  nodded. 

"  That's  excellent  —  for  you.  But  do  not  finance 
the  church  on  your  money.  It  must  be  self-support- 
ing. And  don't  have  '  patrons.'  You'll  soon  have 
another  vestry." 

"But  the  control?" 

"  Trustees.  Build  a  democratic  church.  Let  the 
congregation  elect  the  trustees.  Let  the  regular  at- 
tendants vote.  Give  out  tickets  at  each  meeting  and 
redeem  three  —  five  —  a  dozen,  as  you  determine, 
for  a  ballot.  Then  let  your  trustees  choose  the 
speakers.  You  may  be  the  chief  servant.  You 
must  not  be  master.  You  may  preach  occasionally 
—  there  must  be  many  —  all  types  —  even  Jews. 
To  live,  it  must  be  free.  You  must  seek  men  with 
messages.  Anarchists,  devils,  Catholics,  free-ma- 


BURNED  BRIDGES  225 

sons,  republicans,  single-taxers,  socialists,  aristocrats. 
As  Milton  put  it,  you  must  let  truth  battle  in  a  free 
and  open  encounter.  Then  you  will  have  something 
big,  vital,  valuable.  Is  it  not  so?  " 

He  paused  for  breath,  and  Imrie  sat  silent  in 
amazement  at  the  enthusiasm,  the  breadth  of  vision, 
the  fertile  ingenuity  of  the  little  man.  Then  the 
self-consciousness  which  had  shackled  him  hitherto 
in  the  interview,  fell  away,  and  he  took  up  the  thread 
where  Weis  had  momentarily  laid  it  down. 

Gradually,  as  proposals  were  made  and  rejected 
and  remade,  with  not  a  little  healthy  acrimony,  and 
a  very  great  deal  of  humour  on  the  part  of  the  older 
man,  which  Imrie  needed  most  of  all,  the  idea  took 
shape. 

"  Ho  —  yes,"  cried  Weis,  as  a  crushing  echo  to 
one  of  Imrie's  most  rhetorical  flights.  "  That  is 
fine  —  yes.  Fine  words  —  yes.  But  words  — 
pouf  —  what  are  they?  You  are  young  —  you  wish 
to  reform  the  world.  That  is  excellent  —  ambition 
—  yes.  But  no  more.  If  you  succeed  beyond  your 
dreams,  you  will  do  little,  very  little.  Hitch  your 
wagon  to  a  star  —  yes.  But  don't  try  to  ride  it. 
On  the  ground  all  the  time.  Save  a  soul  or  two  if 
you  can,  not  neglecting  the  bodies  —  and  be  glad. 
Most  of  us  cannot  save  our  own.  Think  of  the  little 
bug  who  makes  coral  islands.  Be  a  good  little  bug. 
Be  an  earnest,  God-fearing  bug.  Help  your  fellow 


226  THIRTY 

bugs  along  the  narrow  way.  But  don't  forget  — 
you  are  only  a  bug  —  yes  —  only  a  bugj—  oh,  so 
trifling!  " 

It  was  long  after  dark  when  they  parted. 

"  It  is  a  field  worth  tilling,"  said  the  older  man 
as  they  shook  hands.  "  Your  hand  is  on  the  plough. 
Keep  your  eyes  ahead." 

"  I  feel  an  inspiration,"  cried  Imrie. 

"Ho  —  yes,"  said  Weis  dryly.  "But  that  will 
pass.  Then  it  will  be  work.  But  I  will  help  you. 
I  am  older.  I  know  —  some  things.  You  are  a 
Christian.  I  am  only  a  Jew.  Still  —  I  can  help. 
Ho  —  yes.  I  will  be  with  you  when  the  inspiration 
goes.  I  am  more  useful  than  inspiration.  Yes  — 
I  will  be  with  you  —  until  you  turn  back.  Then  I 
will  not  be  with  you." 

"  I  will  not  turn  back,"  cried  Imrie  firmly. 

"  Yes  —  I  have  known  young  men  before  —  who 
would  not  turn  back.  We  shall  see  —  yes." 

Imrie  felt,  as  he  walked  toward  the  elevator,  that 
there  was  nothing  in  the  world  he  would  not  suffer 
rather  than  have  those  snapping  black  eyes  look  upon 
him  with  scorn,  and  hear  that  crisp  voice,  with  its 
indefinable  accent,  say  — 

"Ho  —  yes.     I     have     seen  —  another     young 


man." 


CHAPTER  X 

A   BLUFF   CALLED 

FURNISS,  the  oldest  reporter  on  The  Dispatch,  in 
point  of  service,  was  the  one  man  with  whom  Good 
would  have  liked  to  part  company.  But  he  was  so 
distinctly  capable,  and  there  was  such  an  utter  absence 
of  tangible  reason  for  his  dismissal  that  he  remained 
in  his  place,  a  constant,  though  impalpable,  source 
of  irritation. 

He  was  the  only  member  of  the  staff  whose  dis- 
trust of  Good's  motives  remained  fixed  and  uncon- 
cealed. It  was  perhaps  not  wholly  his  fault.  Tem- 
peramentally saturnine,  years  of  service  covering 
"  police  "  had  sapped  his  faith  in  human  nature. 
To  him  there  was  no  such  thing  as  altruism.  At  best 
it  was  but  a  cloak  to  some  subtle  form  of  personal 
exploitation.  Just  what  Good's  "  game  "  was,  he 
did  not  know.  But  that  he  had  no  confidence  in  his 
superior  was  perfectly  evident. 

Good  did  everything  he  could  to  disarm  this  hos- 
tility, but  the  only  result  was  to  confirm  Furniss  in 
the  belief  that  an  effort  was  being  made  to  blind  him. 
Finally  Good  gave  up  the  task,  although  he  never 
ceased  to  regret  his  subordinate's  unconquerable  at- 

227 


228  THIRTY 

titude.  He  was  so  completely  without  suspicion 
himself  that  distrust  of  himself  in  others  was  pe- 
culiarly painful. 

He  and  Bassett  were  in  conference  one  afternoon 
when  Furniss  came  in. 

"  I've  got  a  tip,"  he  said  directly  to  Bassett,  point- 
edly ignoring  Good.  "  Maybe  a  story." 

"  Shoot,"  said  Bassett,  moving  his  cigar  to  the 
other  side  of  his  mouth,  which  was  his  method  of 
indicating  interest. 

'  The  railroads  have  brought  their  scrap  on  the 
constitutionality  of  the  liability  law  up  to  the  appel- 
late court.  Hennessy  of  the  B.  &  F.  got  drunk 
down  state  the  other  night  and  shot  off  his  face  about 
what  was  going  to  happen.  He  said  more  than  he 
meant  to." 

"  Well."  The  cigar  went  back  to  its  former 
corner.  That  signified  as  near  excitement  as  Bassett 
ever  got. 

"  According  to  him  they've  gotten  one  of  the 
court,  and  they're  going  to  get  another  —  up  here." 

"  Yes."  Bassett's  cigar  was  only  half  its  former 
length  and  disappearing  rapidly. 

"  Hennessy's  in  town  to-day.  So's  Harper  of 
the  M.  T.,  Lloyd,  of  the  Western,  and  several 
others." 

"  Go  on."     Bassett  had  begun  on  a  fresh  cigar. 

"  They're   all  hanging  out  at  the  Wellesley  — 


A  BLUFF  CALLED  229 

room  416.     If  anything  stirs,  it  ought  to  be  there." 

"  Yes." 

"  I  sized  up  the  place  this  morning  when  nobody 
was  there.  Also  I  hired  the  next  room  to  it. 
There's  a  doorway  that  commands  the  whole  room. 
It  struck  me  that  if  we  could  put  a  camera  covering 
416,  by  way  of  that  doorway,  and  have  another  fel- 
low watching  through  a  hole  in  the  wall,  the  minute 
they  start  anything,  we'd  yank  open  the  door  and 
touch  off  the  flash.  I  guess  we'd  have  something, 
what?" 

"  You're  not  without  brains,  Furniss,"  said  Bas- 
sett  unemotionally. 

"  Thanks,"  said  Furniss  in  a  similar  tone. 
Neither  tone  expressed  the  feelings  of  its  owner. 

Bassett  never  wasted  time  in  praise  or  blame  — 
until  after  the  matter  was  concluded.  Then  he  ex- 
celled in  either  capacity.  But  the  present  moment 
called  for  action,  not  words. 

"  You  and  Good  with  Sato  for  the  pictures  ought 
to  cover  it,"  he  said  crisply.  A  curious  expression 
twisted  Furniss'  lips.  It  was  not  a  smile.  It  might 
rather  be  called  a  premonition  of  one. 

"  If  they  pull  off  anything  it'll  be  to-night,"  he 
said,  as  Bassett  turned  back  from  his  insistent  tele- 
phone. "  Both  Hennessy  and  Lloyd  I  happen  to 
know  are  going  South  to-morrow." 

"  I'll  save  the  first  column  for  you,"  said  Bassett 


230  THIRTY 

with  as  near  a  chuckle  as  he  ever  permitted  himself. 

"  It'll  break  early,  if  at  all,"  said  Furniss.  Then 
he  turned  insolently  to  Good.  "  Pardon  me,"  he 
said  not  at  all  pleasantly,  "  may  I  have  a  word  with 
Bassett,  Mister  Good?  " 

There  was  nothing  for  it,  but  for  Good  to  leave. 
But  his  face  paled  and  his  teeth  clicked.  As  the 
door  closed  behind  him,  Bassett  swung  around  in  his 
chair. 

"  That  was  a  hell  of  a  thing  to  do,"  he  snapped. 
"  If  he  doesn't  tie  a  can  to  you,  I'll  do  it  myself. 
Who  the  devil  do  you  think  you  are,  anyway?  " 

Furniss  only  laughed.  u  Better  ask  that  four- 
flusher  who  he  is.  His  game's  going  up  in  smoke 
to-night,  or  I  miss  my  guess.  I'll  show  him  up  — 
you  watch." 

Bassett  took  the  cigar  out  of  his  mouth  and  laid 
it  on  the  desk. 

"What's  the  answer?" 

Furniss'  eyes  narrowed.  "  Who's  the  only  judge 
of  the  appellate  court  in  this  town?" 

Bassett  hummed  softly.     "  The  hell  you  say!  " 

"  Exactly.  Now  you  can  figure  it  out.  What 
do  you  think  the  virtuous  Good  will  do  when  he  finds 
out?  Want  a  double-leaded  three  column  head, 
won't  he, —  with  pictures?"  Furniss  sneered  and 
rolled  a  cigarette.  Bassett  looked  out  of  the  win- 
dow and  whistled  thoughtfully. 


A  BLUFF  CALLED  231 

"  This  is  just  an  ordinary  newspaper,"  said  Fur- 
niss  with  significance,  as  he  went  out.  Bassett  did 
not  turn  around.  He  remained  silent  and  motion- 
less for  a  long  time.  The  pile  of  papers  on  his 
desk  grew  higher  and  higher,  but  he  paid  no  heed. 
The  telephone  rang  and  rang  unanswered.  He 
still  sat  staring  into  vacancy,  the  slow  movement  of 
his  jaws  as  they  chewed  the  cigar,  the  only  sign  of 
life. 

One  of  the  office  boys  expressed  it  perhaps  as  well 
as  it  could  be  expressed. 

"  Gee,"  he  whispered  to  his  companions,  "  the 
Old  Man's  awful  tired."  Then  the  buzzer  rang, 
and  the  boy  who  answered  it  concluded  that  it  was 
a  short-lived  weariness,  or  that  he  had  been  sadly 
misinformed. 

In  the  meantime  Good  had  gone  to  his  own  office. 
He  was  puzzled  by  the  curious  behaviour  of  Furniss 
and  vaguely  apprehensive.  The  atmosphere  was 
tense :  it  bade  fair  to  be  a  stormy  night.  He  was 
not  given  to  credence  in  signs  and  portents,  but  the 
sullen  muttering  of  the  thunder  and  the  frequent 
flashes  of  lightning  in  the  darkening  sky  filled  him 
with  inexplicable  dread.  He  lit  his  pipe  and  tried 
to  tell  himself  that  it  was  merely  a  case  of  nerves, 
aggravated  by  the  weather.  But  the  attempt  was  a 
failure.  Then  the  door  opened  and  Roger  Wynrod 
entered,  his  face  such  a  picture  of  health  and  con- 


232  THIRTY 

tentment  that  even  the  hardiest  devils  could  tarry 
no  longer  in  the  room. 

"  I've  been  hunting  you  all  day,"  he  cried.  "  I've 
got  news." 

"A  beat?" 

"  Hardly,"  he  laughed.  "  All  the  papers  have  it. 
That  ought  to  give  you  a  clue.  Can't  you  guess?  " 

"  Not  possibly." 

"Well  — she'll  have  me." 

"  Obviously  you're  imparting  news  of  great  mo- 
ment," said  Good  severely.  "  I've  seldom  seen  you 
look  more  completely  idiotic.  But  I  don't  get  you." 

"Why,  you  wooden-head  —  Molly  Wolcott  — 
me  —  we're  engaged!  " 

"  Oh  —  I  thought  you  had  news.  That's  as  stale 
as  last  year's  election."  Good  laughed  as  he  ban- 
tered, but  the  light  shining  in  his  eyes  showed  the 
tenderness  of  his  feeling  for  the  younger  man. 
"  You're  a  lucky  kid." 

"  Rather.  But  I  earned  it.  She's  had  me  over 
the  hurdles  more  than  once.  I  never  had  a  swelled 
head  with  Molly  in  the  neighbourhood.  She  always 
swore  I'd  never  do." 

"  What  made  her  change?  " 

"  No  idea.     Woman's  way,  I  guess." 

Good  put  his  hand  on  Roger's  shoulder,  and  his 
voice  softened.  "  Poppycock,"  he  said  slowly. 
"  She  never  changed.  She  was  only  waiting  — " 


A  BLUFF  CALLED  233 

"What  for?" 

"  For  you  to  grow  up.  You've  been  growing  fast 
of  late,  my  boy.  The  way  you've  taken  hold  here  — 
it's  been  splendid.  It's  tickled  your  sister  beyond 
words.  And  I  guess  —  it's  tickled  someone  else, 
eh?" 

"  I  guess  you're  about  right,"  he  said  seriously. 
"  I  never  was  much  of  a  fellow.  But  I  never  real- 
ised what  a  useless  ass  I  was  until  I  tried  being  use- 
ful. I  came  in  here  more  on  a  lark  than  anything 
else.  I  never  dreamed  what  a  mess  I  could  make  of 
things.  I  thought  I  was  pretty  much  of  a  man.  I 
was  going  to  look  the  ship  over  and  then  take  up 
quarters  on  the  bridge.  I  was  going  to  give  you 
and  sis  orders  in  no  time.  But  it  didn't  take 
long  to  wake  up.  Why,  I'm  not  even  a  decently 
capable  boy.  I  tell  you,  Good,  this  thing  has  taught 
me  —  lots.  It's  been  mighty  hard  —  harder  than 
you  have  any  idea  of.  I've  wanted  to  lie  down  and 
quit  lots  of  times.  Why,  I  — " 

"  Why  didn't  you?  "  asked  Good  quietly. 
'  Well  —  there  was  Molly.     I  knew  it  was  good- 
bye Roger  if  I  did.     If  there's  one  thing  she  hates, 
it's  a  yellow  streak.     Why,  she  — " 

'  That  wasn't  the  only  reason,  was  it?"  Good's 
eyes  were  very  bright  and  keen.  For  a  moment 
Roger  looked  puzzled.  Then  he  hung  his  head  and 
smiled. 


234  THIRTY 

"  No  —  it  wasn't.  I  —  oh,  hang  it  —  I  don't 
want  to  seem  a  conceited  ass  —  but  —  well  —  I'm 
not  much  for  the  yellow  myself.  I've  never  been  a 
quitter  in  useless  things  —  and  —  and  —  well,  I  just 
couldn't  quit  on  this  job.  I  just  had  to  go  through 
with  it.  Don't  you  understand?" 

"  Yes  —  I  understand."  Good  smiled,  very 
tenderly. 

"  There's  one  thing  more.  I  ..."  Roger 
hesitated,  and  reddened  slightly.  "  I  don't  know 
just  how  to  put  it  into  words,  but  I  want  to  tell 
you  that  I  feel  I  owe  Molly  and  oh  —  everything  — 
to  you.  I  —  oh,  hang  it  —  I  —  I  .  .  ."  He  stam- 
mered and  was  silent,  but  he  gripped  Good's  hand 
again  and  held  it  fast. 

The  older  man's  eyes  winked  with  suspicious 
rapidity,  and  he  swallowed  several  times  before  he 
spoke.  When  he  did  there  was  a  little  tremble  in 
his  voice. 

"  We  Anglo-Saxons,"  he  began.  Then  his  voice 
broke,  and  he  added  in  a  hurried  whisper,  "  We 
can't  talk  —  such  fools  .  .  ." 

But  as  they  held  each  other's  hands  and  looked 
into  each  other's  eyes,  both  knew  that  the  other  un- 
derstood. 

Then  Furniss  and  the  Japanese  photographer 
came  in,  and  the  tension  snapped.  Roger,  who 
shared  Good's  dislike  for  the  reporter,  having  even 


A  BLUFF  CALLED  235 

in  private  characterised  him  as  a  "  buzzard," 
quickly  withdrew,  and  Good  was  left  to  complete 
the  details  of  the  evening's  work. 

Furniss  plunged  into  the  business  at  hand,  with- 
out preliminaries. 

"  There  are  two  doors  between  our  room  and 
416.  I'll  keep  watch  through  the  keyhole  of  one, 
and  when  I  see  anything  and  give  the  word,  you 
pull  open  the  other  and  Sato  snaps  the  flash — " 

"  But,"  interposed  Good,  "  suppose  something 
happens  —  and  happens  in  another  part  of  the  room. 
The  camera  will  have  to  be  far  enough  away  to  give 
clearance  for  the  door,  and  then  it  won't  cover 
much  — " 

"  Perhaps  you'd  like  to  have  them  stage  the  show 
outdoors  and  let  us  film  it  for  the  movies,"  said 
Furniss  sarcastically.  The  photographer  laughed 
furtively  but  Good  affected  not  to  hear  him. 

The  reporter  seemed  to  regret  his  insolence  a 
little.  "  It's  only  a  hundred  to  one  shot,  of  course," 
he  explained  more  amicably.  "  Nothing  may  hap- 
pen. It  may  happen  where  we  can't  get  it.  We 
can  only  hope  for  the  best.  But  there's  a  table  in 
the  centre,  and  the  light's  in  the  centre,  and  if  any- 
thing happens  that's  the  most  likely  place  for  it.  If 
we  get  it  we  get  it,  and  if  we  don't,  we  don't,  that's 
all." 

"  I  see,"  said  Good,  admiring,  in  spite  of  himself, 


236  THIRTY 

the  undeniable  ability  of  the  man,  however  displeas- 
ing his  personality. 

"  One  thing  more,"  continued  Furniss.  "  The 
minute  they  hear  the  flash  they'll  break  for  it. 
Most  of  'em  will  run  for  the  hall,  because  they're 
cowards  and  fools.  But  Hennessy's  neither  one 
nor  the  other,  and  he'll  make  straight  for  us.  He's 
a  big  guy  and  ready  for  rough  work.  Furthermore 
he's  keen.  He'll  see  our  game  right  off.  Now 
while  Sato  and  I  make  a  getaway,  it'll  be  up  to  you 
to  stop  Hennessy.  I  say  you,  because  you're  big- 
ger than  I  am.  Can  you  use  your  hands  —  fight?  " 

"  I  have." 

"  I  thought  so.  Well,  I'd  suggest  your  pasting 
him  if  you  can,  before  he  pastes  you,  and  then  beat- 
ing it,  too." 

"  How  will  you  leave  the  hotel?  " 

"  Glad  you  asked  that.  When  you  leave,  don't 
go  for  the  elevators,  but  take  the  stairs.  On  the 
third  floor  you'll  find  the  freight  elevator  waiting 
for  you.  Now,  is  there  anything  else  ?  " 

The  photographer  had  a  few  questions  to  ask,  and 
Good  studied  Furniss  while  he  answered  them.  The 
little  reporter  was  like  an  animal  on  the  trail  of 
its  prey.  His  thin  nostrils  contracted  and  expanded 
as  he  talked,  and  there  was  a  lithe,  nervous  tenseness 
about  every  feature  of  his  face.  Good  thought  with 


A  BLUFF  CALLED  237 

half  a  shudder  that  he  would  not  care  to  have  Fur- 
niss on  his  trail.  And  yet,  even  as  the  thought 
struck  him,  he  was  conscious  of  the  little  man's  eyes 
upon  him,  boring  him  through,  as  if  that  were  pre- 
cisely what  he  was  about.  He  tried  to  rid  himself 
of  the  absurd  notion,  but  it  persisted.  One  of  the 
characteristics  of  Furniss  was  his  complete  imperson- 
ality. He  might,  almost  unaided,  devote  months 
of  single-handed,  implacable  effort,  as  in  the  famous 
Varney  case,  to  tracking  down  and  placing  a  whole 
company  of  men  in  the  penitentiary;  but  never  with 
the  slightest  hint  of  vindictiveness.  He  sought  out 
corruption  and  punished  its  authors  always  for  the 
solitary  reason  that  thereby  he  made  news.  He  was 
like  the  bloodhound,  which  pursues  its  quarry  as 
long  as  it  has  breath  in  its  body  —  only  to  over- 
whelm it  with  caresses. 

But  now,  Good  fancied,  the  impersonal  note  was 
gone.  It  seemed  to  him,  why,  he  could  not  say, 
that  Furniss  had  a  purpose  other  than  to  unearth 
news.  There  seemed  more  mastiff  than  bloodhound 
in  him,  more  lust  for  blood  than  love  of  the  chase. 
Again  and  again  he  told  himself  how  silly  it  was, 
but  he  could  not  rid  himself  of  the  suggestion  that 
he  was  the  goal  at  which  the  reporter  aimed. 

By  eight  o'clock  the  three  had  begun  their  vigil. 
At  intervals  Furniss  fixed  his  eye  to  the  keyhole, 


23  8  THIRTY 

turning  to  stare,  with  what  Good  thought  a  very 
slightly  concealed  malevolence,  at  himself.  The  .air 
was  surcharged  with  expectancy. 

Good  smoked  his  pipe  and  wondered  what  it  all 
meant.  The  photographer  lit  one  cigarette  on  the 
end  of  another,  but  otherwise  appeared  as  indiffer- 
ent as  a  graven  image.  Increasingly  Furniss  kept 
his  eye  to  the  keyhole.  Suddenly  a  jerk  of  his  arm 
brought  the  others  to  attention.  Good  emptied  his 
pipe  and  took  up  his  position  by  the  other  door. 
The  photographer  crushed  out  his  cigarette  on  his 
heel  and  examined,  for  the  hundredth  time,  the 
mechanism  of  his  flash  pistol. 

For  a  little  while  they  stood  tense  and  watchful, 
but  when  nothing  happened,  they  relaxed  a  trifle. 
The  photographer  lit  another  cigarette.  Good  sat 
down,  but  at  a  glare  from  the  reporter,  stood  up 
again.  The  muffled  sound  of  voices  came  to  them 
from  the  other  room,  occasionally  rising  in  pitch, 
as  if  in  argument,  though  no  words  could  be  distin- 
guished. 

They  remained  thus  for  what  seemed  an  eternity. 
Once  Good  looked  at  his  watch.  It  was  half  past 
nine.  The  voices  still  rose  and  fell  on  the  other 
side  of  the  door.  Once  Sato  yawned,  and  changed 
his  flash  pistol  from  one  hand  to  the  other.  Sud- 
denly Furniss  turned  from  the  keyhole,  his  eyes 
ablaze,  and  his  lips  silently  formed  the  warning. 


The  air  was  surcharged  with  expectancy 


A  BLUFF  CALLED  239 

Good,  his  heart  thumping  uncontrollably,  the  sense 
of  something  terrible  impending,  more  acute  than 
ever,  put  his  hand  on  the  doorknob.  The  photog- 
rapher fingered  his  shutter  release.  .  .  . 

Good  never  afterward  could  tell  exactly  how  it 
all  happened.  He  never  could  see  in  his  mind's 
eye  the  signal  from  Furniss.  Yet  he  must  have  seen 
it,  else  the  door  would  never  have  been  opened. 

All  he  knew  at  the  moment,  and  all  he  could  ever 
remember,  was  a  sudden  blinding  flash  of  light,  with 
a  dull  roar,  and  he  was  staring  past  a  roomful  of 
men  straight  into  the  eyes  of  —  Judge  Wolcott. 
They  were  wide  with  recognition  and  helpless  ter- 
ror. 

Then  he  was  conscious  of  a  rush  of  scurrying  feet, 
and  a  large  man  pushing  over  a  chair  in  front  — 
making  for  him. 

It  flashed  over  him  that  this  was  Hennessy,  act- 
ing as  if  the  whole  thing  had  been  planned  and  re- 
hearsed. He  laughed  unconsciously,  as  if  in  a 
dream.  It  had  been  rehearsed.  As  the  big  man 
reached  the  threshold,  his  eyes  flaming,  his  nostrils 
dilated,  his  jaw  open,  like  some  mad  bull,  Good's 
arm  straightened  mechanically.  The  blazing  eyes 
and  red  nostrils  vanished,  and  his  knuckles  hurt 
him  vaguely.  Then  the  lights  went  out  in  the  other 
room,  and  he  made  for  the  door.  He  felt  sick 
to  his  stomach  when  he  reached  the  street,  and  some- 


24o  THIRTY 

thing  seemed  to  press  on  his  temples  till  he  wanted 
to  scream. 

But  the  horrible  feeling  of  dread  had  vanished. 
He  knew  now  what  he  had  feared.  And  he  under- 
stood the  light  in  Furniss'  eyes.  For  a  moment  he 
stood  on  the  street-corner,  swaying  like  a  drunken 
man,  before  his  shoulders  straightened  and  his  jaw 
set,  and  he  made  for  a  taxi. 

The  office  was  filled  with  suppressed  excitement 
when  he  reached  it.  Bassett  was  chewing  one  of  his 
interminable  cigars,  but  the  gleam  in  his  eyes  be- 
tokened the  fires  in  his  soul.  Bassett  wanted  very 
much  to  get  on  the  table  and  howl,  but  had  anyone 
even  so  much  as  suspected  that  he  was  not  ice,  he 
would  never  have  recovered  from  the  humiliation. 

"  Great  stuff,"  he  said  with  exaggerated  passive- 
ness.  "  First  galleys  will  be  up  soon.  Furniss  had 
most  of  the  story  written  before  he  pulled  the  thing 
off.  Great  lad,  Furniss." 

But  Good,  his  face  grey,  the  skin,  like  old  parch- 
ment, drawn  tight  to  bursting  over  his  high  cheek 
bones,  said  never  a  word.  He  sank  into  a  chair, 
staring  straight  before  him. 

"  But  the  picture's  the  thing,"  went  on  Bassett,  in 
a  tone  he  might  have  employed  in  discussing  a  press- 
drive.  "  It  ought  to  set  this  town  by  the  ears. 
Wolcott's  a  big  fish  to  land.  Church  pillar  and  all 


A  BLUFF  CALLED  241 

that.  Wonder  what  made  him  fall.  Never  had 
anything  on  him  before.  Shouldn't  wonder  if  he 
shot  himself,"  he  added,  quite  indifferently. 

Presently  a  boy  brought  in  the  first  batch  of 
proofs.  Bassett  leaped  to  his  desk  and  buried  him- 
self in  them.  As  his  pencil  moved,  fragmentary 
sentences  slipped  from  his  mouth.  "  Great  stuff!  " 
— "  Holy  Eliza,  what  a  shock  to  the  silk-stockings !  " 
— "  St.  Viateur's'll  need  a  new  vestryman." — "  Fur- 
niss  —  you're  a  bear!  " — 

Good  rose  and  read  listlessly  over  his  shoulder. 
Then  he  fell  to  pacing  slowly  back  and  forth. 

"  Plate  developed?  "  he  asked  finally,  in  a  forced, 
dead  tone. 

"  Bully  —  bully  — "  muttered  Bassett.  "  What  ? 
The  plate  —  oh  —  guess  so.  Why?  " 

"  I  want  it." 

Bassett  turned  to  his  telephone.  In  a  few  mo- 
ments a  boy  arrived  with  the  negative  in  his  hand. 
The  editor  reached  for  it,  but  Good  anticipated  him. 
He  took  the  plate  and  stood  staring  at  it  stupidly. 

In  the  meantime  Furniss  had  entered. 

"  It's  all  in,"  he  said,  with  a  heavy  sigh.  "  Not 
bad  — eh?" 

"  Best  ever,"  said  Bassett  shortly.  "  You're 
some  kid,  Furniss."  The  reporter  smiled  happily. 
He  wanted  no  more.  Then  he  turned  to  Good,  and 


242  THIRTY 

studied  him  narrowly.  But  the  tall  man,  his  eyes 
still  fixed  on  the  plate,  and  his  face  drawn  as  if  in 
physical  pain,  took  no  notice  of  him. 

There  was  silence  in  the  room,  broken  only  by  the 
rustle  as  Bassett  mulled  over  the  proofs. 

Then  there  was  a  crash.  The  negative  lay  on  the 
desk  ...  in  fragments. 

"  Good  God !  "  Furniss'  hand  was  poised  in 
mid-air,  as  if  he  had  been  turned  to  stone.  Bas- 
sett's  eyes  were  staring  like  a  madman's. 

Good  leaned  over  and  picking  up  the  proofs  on 
the  desk,  fell  to  tearing  them  slowly  to  bits.  At 
each  tear  a  spasm  of  pain  crossed  Furniss'  face. 
But  he  remained  transfixed. 

"I  guess  —  we  won't  —  run  this,"  said  Good 
dully,  as  if  speaking  to  himself. 

The  words  brought  Bassett  to  life.  Like  an  ava- 
lanche, prayers,  threats,  entreaties,  oaths,  poured 
from  his  lips.  He  stormed  up  and  down  the  office, 
his  fists  clenched,  his  clothes  awry,  his  hair  tousled. 
Suddenly  he  subsided,  and  in  a  tone  like  a  girl's, 
and  with  a  manner  which  one  might  use  with  insanity, 
he  made  his  intreaties.  Then,  as  suddenly,  he  burst 
into  frenzy  again. 

Good,  staring  straight  before  him,  still  tearing 
the  proofs  into  shreds,  made  no  sign. 

Furniss  was  silent  too.  He  stared  at  Good  un- 
winking, as  lifeless  as  if  carved  from  ivory,  but  with 


A  BLUFF  CALLED  243 

such  a  look  of  horror  in  his  face  as  even  Bassett, 
well-nigh  mad  with  surprise  and  disappointment, 
never  afterwards  forgot.  Then,  without  warning, 
the  look  of  horror  faded.  He  laughed  —  bitterly, 
but  easily. 

"You  see,  Bassett — I  told  you  —  it's  just  an 
ordinary  newspaper."  He  laughed  again.  The 
sound  sent  a  shiver  down  Good's  spine.  He  seemed 
to  hear  it  echoing  and  re-echoing  in  his  ears  as  Fur- 
niss  went  out,  the  door  slamming  behind  him. 

When  he  had  gone,  Good  turned  and  faced  Bas- 
sett, who  ceased  alike  to  storm  and  to  plead.  The 
editor  was  sitting  in  his  chair,  chewing  his  cigar,  al- 
ready regretting  that  he  had  so  far  lost  control  of 
himself. 

'You  don't  understand,  do  you?"  asked  Good 
with  ineffable  sadness  in  his  voice. 

"  Yes,"  said  Bassett,  half  bitterly,  half  sadly,  "  I 
understand." 

The  tall  man  smiled  —  if  the  pitiful,  hopeless  ex- 
pression that  came  into  his  face  could  be  called  a 
smile,  and  put  his  hand  on  the  other's  shoulder. 

"  No,"  he  said  softly,  "  you  don't." 

As  he  went  quietly  out,  from  what  seemed  like  a 
death-chamber,  and  felt  Bassett's  hard  eyes  follow- 
ing him,  he  knew  that  in  truth  something  very  pre- 
cious had  died  that  night. 

In  his  own  office  he  sat  with  his  head  in  his  hands. 


244  THIRTY 

"  I'm  not  a  machine  —  I'm  only  a  man,"  he  repeated 
over  and  over  again,  until  he  heard  the  refrain  with- 
out speaking.  "  If  I  could  only  make  them  under- 
stand." His  voice  was  helpless.  He  knew  that 
he  only  half  understood  himself. 

How  long  he  sat  thus  puzzling  the  mystery  of  his 
own  nature,  he  never  knew.  But  presently  he  be- 
came aware  that  he  was  not  alone.  The  room  was 
in  only  partial  darkness,  a  street  lamp  filling  it  with 
a  sickly  glow.  He  raised  his  eyes,  and  for  a  second 
time  that  night,  met  those  of  Judge  Wolcott.  But 
they  were  different.  The  sharp  terror  had  given 
place  to  heavy  pain. 

"  Hello,"  said  Good,  as  if  this  was  quite  what  he 
had  expected. 

"  Mr.  Good,  I  ..."  The  Judge's  voice  was  a 
pitiful  travesty  of  its  former  masterful  assurance. 
Never  before  had  the  Judge  been  obliged  so  to 
humble  himself.  "  I  don't  know  what  I  can  say  — 
only  — I  — I  .  .  ." 

"  You  want  mercy,"  said  Good  brutally.  He 
marvelled  at  the  phrase.  That  was  not  what  he 
had  meant  to  say.  It  seemed  to  come  from  lips 
quite  beyond  his  control. 

"  Not  for  myself."  The  old  man's  tone  was  in- 
expressibly sad,  yet  not  without  a  certain  dignity. 
"  There  are  my  daughters.  I  —  I  —  would  spare 
them." 


A  BLUFF  CALLED  245 

"  Belated,  eh  —  a  bit,  don't  you  think?  "  Again 
Good  was  amazed  at  his  cruelty.  He  seemed  to  be 
in  the  grasp  of  devils. 

The  Judge  hung  his  head.  "  I  don't  know  what 
to  say,"  he  sighed  brokenly.  "  I  only  hoped — " 

"  That  you  could  come  snivelling  to  me  and  beg 
off,  for  the  sake  of  your  daughters,  eh?  Well  — 
look  here,  my  friend.  You've  given  us  the  greatest 
scoop  of  the  year."  Good's  tone  was  as  hard  as 
adamant,  though  there  were  tears  in  his  heart. 
"  To  save  your  daughters  from  disgrace,  you'd  have 
us  give  up  the  thing  we  live  for." 

"  I  know  —  I  know  —  but  is  it  so  much  ?  " 

"  It's  everything.  But  let  that  pass.  Here's  a 
thing  that  counts.  Has  it  occurred  to  you  what 
would  happen  to  me  if  I  listened  to  you  ?  " 

"To  you?" 

"  Yes.  If  I  kill  this  story,  my  work  here  ends. 
By  the  standards  of  those  about  me  I'd  be  a  traitor. 
I've  preached  truth  without  fear  or  favour  —  you 
understand  —  without  fear  or  favour.  I've  fought 
pull  with  everything  I've  got.  And  now  you'd  have 
me  .  .  .  man,  it's  a  test  —  can't  you  see  —  it's  a 
test !  "  Good's  voice  changed  suddenly.  From  the 
court,  passing  sentence,  he  had  become  the  con- 
demned, pleading  for  clemency. 

The  old  man  drew  himself  up.  "  I  see.  I  did 
not  —  wholly  understand.  It  is  —  inevitable." 


246  THIRTY 

There  was  indescribable  pathos  in  the  resignation 
with  which  he  spoke.  "  It  is  inevitable,"  he  re- 
pealed softly.  Then  he  turned  to  go. 

"  Why  don't  you  see  Wynrod?  "  asked  Good  with 
sudden  harshness. 

The  other  man  laughed  mirthlessly.  "  He  is  the 
one  person  from  whom  I'd  keep  —  this,"  he  said 
shortly.  "  He  —  he  —  cares  for  me  —  now  .  .  ." 

Good's  voice  changed  again,  and  grew  soft. 
'  Judge,"  he  asked  quietly,  almost  indifferently, 
"what  caused  it  all?" 

The  old  man's  fine  white  head  fell  on  his  chest, 
and  Good  felt  glad,  for  him,  in  his  bitter  shame, 
that  it  was  dark. 

"  I  had  rather  not  speak  of  that,"  he  said  wearily. 
'  What  is  done  is  done."     He  rose  to  go.     Good 
waited  until  his  hand  was  on  the  doorknob. 

"  Wait,"  he  whispered  chokingly.  His  voice 
was  lifeless.  "  I  was  joking,  you  know.  It's  all 
right.  It's  all  right,"  he  repeated,  as  if  the  words 
were  forced  from  him.  "  The  story's  dead." 

"  I  don't  understand  .  .  ." 

'  The  story's  killed,  I  tell  you.  You  can  read 
to-morrow's  Dispatch  without  a  tremble." 

*  You  mean  ...  ? "  The  old  man  was 
clutching  at  his  collar  as  if  it  hurt  him.  "  You 
mean  ...  ?  " 

"  For  the  third  time  —  the  story's  dead." 


A  BLUFF  CALLED  247 

"Did  Roger—  ?" 

"  He  knows  nothing  about  it." 

"  Then  you  —  it  was  you?  " 

"  Yes  —  it  was  I."  The  Judge  never  forgot  the 
unutterable  hopelessness  of  Good's  tone  as  those 
four  words  crept  slowly  from  him. 

"  How  can  I  ever  .  .  ."  The  old  man  made 
for  Good,  his  hand  outstretched.  But  the  latter 
recoiled. 

"  I'd  rather  you  wouldn't.  You  owe  me  —  noth- 
ing." 

The  Judge  hesitated,  not  knowing  what  to  do  or 
say.  Good  was  the  first  to  speak,  a  subtle  note  in 
his  voice,  not  easy  to  analyse. 

"  That  liability  law,"  he  said  abruptly.  "  It's 
constitutional?  " 

«I__er  —  think  so." 

"  You're  certain  of  it?  "     Good's  voice  had  sud- 
denly become  like  steel,  and  the  old  man  seemed  to 
grow  visibly  smaller  before  the  keen  eyes  penetrat- 
ing to  the  innermost  recesses  of  his  soul. 
'  Yes  —  I  —  I'm  quite  sure  of  it." 
'  Your  mind  is  fully  made  up,  of  course."     The 
meaning  behind  the  words  was  unmistakable.     The 
Judge  took  his  cue  at  once. 

"  Absolutely." 

"  Good  night,"  said  Good. 

"  But  I  — "     The  Judge  hesitated. 


248  THIRTY 

"  Good  night,"  repeated  the  tall  man  with  a  final- 
ity which  brooked  no  question. 

The  old  man  stood  embarrassedly  looking  at  him 
for  a  moment.  Then  he  went  out,  softly  closing  the 
door  behind  him. 

Good  sat  staring  after  him,  a  crooked  little  smile 
twisting  his  lips,  his  body  looking  oddly  shrunken 
and  weak. 

And  there  he  sat  unmoving,  until  he  heard  the 
rumble  of  the  trucks  in  the  street  below  and  knew 
that  the  first  edition  was  on  its  way  to  the  world. 
Then  he  went  out. 

From  his  office  he  went  down  to  the  sub-basement, 
where  the  presses  ground  spruce  forests  into  news- 
papers. For  a  little  while  he  stood  watching  the 
great  machines  with  the  virgin  white  rolling 
smoothly  through  them  like  threads  in  a  loom.  He 
had  never  lost  his  fascination  for  this  alchemy  of 
power,  and  now,  at  his  darkest  hour,  the  wonder  of 
it  filled  him  as  never  before,  and  the  roaring  song 
seemed  the  sweetest  sound  he  had  ever  heard. 

He  was  buried  in  his  dream  and  the  man  in  over- 
alls who  approached  him  seemed  but  a  corporeal 
manifestation  of  an  idea.  When  he  spoke  it  was 
not  to  a  man,  but  to  a  wizard  who  bore  the  keys  of 
truth.  His  soul  whispered  to  the  soul  of  the  ma- 
chines. His  words  stumbled  far  behind. 

11  What  a  marvel !     What  power !     What  magic ! 


A  BLUFF  CALLED  249 

What  possibilities  unthought  of  ...  oh,  the 
press  .  .  ." 

But  it  was  only  a  pressman,  rather  more  than 
usually  tired,  who  answered. 

"  Yes,  she's  a  pretty  good  old  girl.  But  say,  you 
oughta  see  the  new  tubular  duplex  they're  gettin' 
out!  It's  got  this  skinned  a  mile.  Why  say  .  .  ." 

Good's  revery  faded.  Reality  obtruded.  This 
poor  Prometheus,  dabbling  boastfully  with  the  fire 
of  the  gods  —  ah,  well  .  .  .  who  that  read  The 
Dispatch  on  the  morrow,  with  his  toast  and  coffee, 
would  know  the  magic,  the  wonder,  the  poetry  in 
his  hands?  Would  it  be  ought  but  a  newspaper  to 
a  single  one?  Blind  world! 

"  What  drives  the  presses?  "  he  asked  dreamily. 

'  Well,  this  one  has  a  G.  E.  polyphase,  monitor 
control,  with  .  .  ."  began  the  pressman.  But  the 
words  fell  on  empty  air.  The  other  man  had  gone. 


CHAPTER  XI 

"  TEARS    .    .    .   AND   THEN   ICE  " 

THE  next  afternoon  Good  got  together  an  account 
of  his  stewardship  and  went  to  see  Judith,  who  was 
at  Braeburn.  He  took  the  four  o'clock  train. 

Several  stations  out,  a  roughly  dressed  man  en- 
tered the  car  and  took  the  seat  next  to  him.  Pres- 
ently he  asked  for  a  match,  and  with  that  as  an 
opening,  requested  what,  with  delicate  euphemism, 
he  characterised  as  a  "  loan  "  of  a  pipeful  of  to- 
bacco. 

"When  were  you  discharged?"  asked  Good 
quietly,  as  he  handed  over  his  pouch.  The  man 
changed  colour  and  seemed  to  shrink  visibly  into 
the  corner  of  his  seat. 

'  Who  the  ...  I  haven't  been  discharged,"  he 
stammered. 

"  Deserter,  then?" 

"  I  don't  get  ye." 

"  What's  the  use  of  stalling,"  said  Good.  "  I've 
served  myself." 

The  man  looked  over  his  shoulder  furtively. 
"How  did  ye  know?"  he  whispered. 

250 


"TEARS  .  .  .  AND  THEN  ICE"      251 

"  It  takes  a  long  time  to  lose  that  set  to  your 
shoulders,  my  friend." 

"Well  —  what  ye  goin'  to  do  about  it?"  The 
question  was  put  more  with  resignation  than  de- 
fiance. 

Good  raised  his  eyebrows.  "  Do  about  it?  Why 
—  what  is  there  to  do?  " 

"  There's  a  bounty  up,"  muttered  the  deserter 
savagely. 

"  Of  course  —  but  what  of  it?  " 

"  Aw,  cut  that  stuff !  Call  the  con  and  cash  in. 
Might  as  well  be  now  as  later."  The  words  were 
uttered  wearily,  as  if  the  speaker's  strength  were 
at  a  low  ebb.  "  I'm  sick  o'  chasin'  round  an' 
starvin'.  At  least  I'll  get  my  belly  full  in  stir. 
Nothin'  to  this  game.  I  been  on  the  jump  ever  since 
I  ...  left.  I  knew  one  o'  you  dicks  'd  get  me 
some  time.  Go  on  —  make  the  pinch." 

"You  think  I'm  a  dick?" 

"Well  — ain't  ye?" 

"  Hardly." 

"  Hell  —  I  thought  you  was."  There  was  no 
particular  regret  in  the  man's  voice.  He  seemed  to 
have  lost  any  very  keen  interest  in  what  fate  might 
do  with  him  further. 

"  Out  of  work?  "  asked  Good,  after  a  pause. 

"  Most  o'  the  time.  Can't  stay  in  one  place 
long." 


252  THIRTY 

"  Where  you  bound  for  now?  " 

"  Country.     Got  a  chance  on  a  farm." 

"That's  the  safest  place.     Got  any  money?" 

"  Two  bits.     I'm  flush  to-day." 

"  Here's  two  more.     Four's  luck." 

The  man  eyed  his  benefactor  narrowly.  "  Say," 
he  ventured,  "  you  look's  if  you  was  kind  o'  up 
against  it  yerself." 

"  More  or  less,"  said  Good  shortly.  A  moment 
later  Braeburn  was  reached,  and  he  rose. 

"  Here's  luck,  bo,"  said  the  deserter.  "  Got  a 
job?" 

Good's  only  reply  was  a  faint  smile.  But  it  was 
such  a  curious  smile  that  the  other  man  thought 
about  it  for  a  long  time  afterward.  He  concluded 
that  its  owner  had  no  job.  He  almost  regretted 
that  he  had  accepted  the  quarter. 

It  was  well  on  in  November,  though  summer 
seemed  to  have  returned  for  a  fleeting  visit.  But  in 
spite  of  the  warmth  Good's  heart  was  heavy  as  he 
trudged  up  the  winding  road,  where  death  had  almost 
overtaken  him,  and  where  the  happiest  chapter  of  his 
life  had  begun.  He  almost  wished  he  were  going 
again  to  interview  the  rich  Miss  Wynrod  for  The 
Workman's  World. 

But  although,  for  the  most  part,  his  gaze  was  in- 
trospective, he  was  not  wholly  blind  to  the  splendour 
of  the  world  about  him.  Beside  the  road  the  oaks 


"  TEARS  .  .  .  AND  THEN  ICE  "      253 

and  maples  seemed  to  bow  and  scrape  to  one  another, 
garbed,  like  the  Assyrian,  in  purple  and  gold,  with 
here  and  there  a  flash  of  poignant  scarlet.  The  dis- 
tant hills,  glowing  warmly  in  the  soft  haze,  were 
great  strips  of  Scotch  tweed.  Now  and  again,  borne 
on  the  breeze,  came  the  pungent  odour  of  burning 
leaves. 

He  halted,  more  than  once,  to  draw  a  long  breath 
and  marvel  at  the  glories  of  the  scene.  It  was 
peaceful  but  not  quiet.  The  fallen  leaves  rustled 
incessantly,  and  the  squirrels,  not  at  all  deceived  by 
this  pretence  of  summer,  went  busily  on  with  their 
preparations  for  what  was  coming,  chattering  vol- 
ubly the  while.  The  sound  of  a  whistle  drifted 
faintly  from  the  distant  railroad,  that  man  and  his 
works  should  not  be  forgotten,  even  here. 

Good's  clouded  brow  cleared,  and  the  heaviness 
dropped  from  his  heart.  He  had  come  from  the 
clamorous  city,  with  its  strife,  its  falsities,  its  bit- 
ter disappointments;  and  presently  he  would  return. 
But  now,  for  one  brief  moment,  in  the  midst  of  sweet, 
mysterious  odours,  and  sweeter  memories,  he  was 
very  happy. 

He  kicked  the  leaves  around  his  feet  exultantly, 
like  a  boy,  and  tried  to  persuade  every  squirrel  he 
saw  to  come  and  taste  the  mythical  peanut  he  held 
in  his  fingers.  The  squirrels  were  wary,  but  a  little 
dog  limped  up  to  him  wagging  a  fragmentary  tail 


254  THIRTY 

and  whining  faintly.  He  stopped  to  analyse  the 
whine,  and  as  a  result  a  troublesome  burr  ceased 
longer  to  trouble.  The  animal  followed  him  the 
rest  of  the  way  to  the  Wynrod  house. 

The  man  turned  at  the  gate.  "  Good-bye, 
friend,"  he  said  gravely.  The  dog  wagged  his 
whole  body  and  barked  twice.  It  was  indisputable 
that  he  understood. 

Good  found  Judith  waiting  for  him  in  the  library. 
As  they  shook  hands  he  thought  that  he  had  never 
seen  so  lovely  a  creature.  She  was  dressed  in  a 
riding  costume  of  hunter  green,  which  toned  per- 
fectly with  the  autumnal  warmth  of  her  skin.  There 
was  a  wine-like  sparkle  in  her  eyes  and  her  teeth 
gleamed  in  an  unaffected  smile  as  she  greeted  him. 
Apparently  his  presence  was  pleasing  to  her.  But 
as  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  their  reflections  in  the  mir- 
row  over  the  fireplace,  he  wondered,  a  little  dis- 
mally, how  that  were  possible.  She  was  so  fresh 
and  sound  and  glowing,  and  yet,  withal,  so  dainty,  so 
delicate,  so  thoroughly  feminine:  while  he  ... 
never,  he  thought,  had  he  realised  quite  how  awk- 
ward and  grotesque  a  thing  he  was.  The  mirror 
was  brutally  candid.  Beside  her  face,  with  its  col- 
ouring of  frost-ripened  apple,  his  own  stared  back, 
telling  its  sordid  tale  of  stuffy  rooms  and  gas-light 
and  greasy  food  and  lack  of  exercise.  With  its 
seams  and  wrinkles  it  looked  like  a  coat  of  white 


"TEARS  .  .  .  AND  THEN  ICE"      255 

paint,  yellowed  and  broken  by  over-long  exposure 
to  the  elements.  He  was  suddenly  conscious  that 
his  suit  was  very  old  and  ill-fitting,  and  that  his  hair 
needed  cutting  badly.  For  the  first  time  in  his  life 
he  suffered  a  pang  of  regret  that  the  configuration 
of  his  neck  prevented  his  wearing  a  collar  which  fit 
him. 

As  he  looked  down  at  her  hand  in  his,  smooth, 
well-formed,  the  fingers  tapering  delicately,  yet  with 
a  flow  of  muscle  under  the  integument  revealing 
bridle-strength  —  for  horse  or  man  —  he  sighed. 
His  own  seemed  so  huge  and  formless,  with  its 
mountainous  purple  veins,  its  coarse  black  hair,  like 
forests,  and  the  spatulate  nails  —  clumsy,  broken, 
yellow  where  hers  were  pink  .  .  .  hastily  his  hand 
sought  his  pocket. 

"  Well,"  she  said,  when  the  silence  threatened  to 
become  embarrassing,  "  what's  the  news  from 
the  scene  of  action?  " 

He  drew  a  bulky  envelope  from  his  coat,  and  tried 
to  forget  her  physical  presence.  But  to  the  familiar 
smell  of  burning  leaves  clung  a  faint  scent  of 
jaqueminot.  His  hand  trembled  a  little  as  he  turned 
the  pages  of  the  documents. 

"  You'll  be  disappointed,"  he  whispered  huskily. 

11  Why?  " 

"  It's  a  poor  showing." 

"  Wasn't  that  to  be  expected?  " 


256  THIRTY 

"  In  a  way,  yes,  but  .  .  ." 

"  Is  it  as  bad  as  it  might  be?  " 

"  Well,  no,  but  .  .  ." 

"  Tell  me  about  it,  then."  She  had  seated  her- 
self and  was  busy  with  the  tea  things  which  a  maid 
had  brought  in.  Good  found  it  necessary  to  read 
words  several  times  before  he  caught  their  meaning. 
It  was  difficult  to  keep  his  eyes  upon  the  paper. 

"  Shall  I  give  the  inventory  first?  "  he  asked. 

"  Oh,  don't  bother  with  the  details.  I  can  read 
all  that  later.  Just  give  a  summary  —  and  tell  me 
what  it  all  means." 

He  cleared  his  throat.  "  Well  —  advertising 
fell  off  fast  at  first.  Then  some  of  it  came  back. 
Mostly  small  stuff,  though.  The  big  stores  have 
never  come  back.  And  all  the  heavy  advertisers, 
like  the  telephone  and  the  electric  light  companies, 
seem  gone  for  good.  Advertising  revenue  has  been 
cut  in  half  —  maybe  a  little  more." 

"  But  you  expected  that." 

"  Oh,  yes.  It's  quite  natural.  We've  ham- 
mered the  telephone  company  pretty  hard  on  its  pur- 
chase of  the  independents.  And  of  course  you  know 
what  we  did  to  the  department  stores.  Oh,  I  knew 
we'd  lose  advertising.  But  the  circulation  —  that's 
been  more  disappointing." 

"Has  it  fallen  off?" 

"  Pretty  badly.     I  knew  we'd  lose  at  first.     But 


"TEARS  .  .  .  AND  THEN  ICE"      257 

I  thought  we'd  gain  later.  We  haven't,  though  — 
not  as  we  should.  People  don't  seem  to  want  the 
truth  —  unless  it's  sensational.  They  want  excite- 
ment and  partisanship.  Sometimes  I  think  they'd 
rather  be  lied  to  than  not.  And  they  don't  like  to 
hear  so  much  about  misery  and  evil.  We  expose  too 
much.  We're  unpleasant.  They'd  rather  ignore 
unpleasant  things.  Of  course  I  knew  your  class 
would  hate  us  and  fight  us  —  and  they  have.  But 
the  ordinary  people  —  I  felt  sure  —  I  thought  — 
they'd  support  us.  But  they  haven't  —  not  as  they 
should.  It  hurts  ...  I  can't  tell  you  how  much !  " 
His  voice  broke,  and  he  looked  pathetically  old  and 
worn.  The  tears  came  into  Judith's  eyes  as  she  re- 
called the  enthusiasm  with  which  he  had  first 
broached  the  plan  of  purchasing  The  Dispatch. 

"  I'm  disappointed,  too,"  she  said  slowly,  after  a 
pause.  He  recoiled  as  if  she  had  struck  him. 

"  Not  in  the  paper  —  in  you,"  she  added  hastily, 
seeing  the  pain  in  his  eyes.  "  I  thought  your  faith 
was  stronger.  Have  you  forgotten  what  you  said 
to  me  — '  serve,  not  for  them,  for  yourself  '  ?  Is 
it  popularity  you're  after?  Has  truth  ever  been 
popular?  " 

"  A  newspaper,  to  succeed,  must  be  popular,"  he 
murmured. 

"  Did  you  persuade  me  to  buy  The  Dispatch  in 
order  to  be  successful?  Come,  Mr.  Good,  this  is 


258  THIRTY 

unlike  you.  Didn't  you  warn  me  I  would  lose 
friends  as  well  as  money?  Well  —  I  have.  Didn't 
you  show  me  quite  candidly  that  whatever  success 
might  come  would  be  very  small?  You  hated  char- 
ity because  it  was  only  temporary  and  expedient. 
But  charity  is  popular,  and  the  results  show.  Truly 
I  am  surprised  at  you."  She  paused,  waiting,  but 
Good  only  sighed. 

"  Come,  if  you  were  in  my  place  —  if  you  owned 
The  Dispatch  —  would  you  be  down  like  this?  " 

She  was  surprised  and  taken  aback  a  little  at  his 
reply.  "  Yes,"  he  said  heavily,  "  I  would."  She 
was  not  to  understand  his  meaning  for  a  long  time. 

She  laughed,  not  because  she  was  amused,  but  be- 
cause she  could  think  of  nothing  to  say.  The  sound 
seemed  to  brighten  him  a  little. 

u  Of  course  you  understand,"  he  said,  "  that  when 
I  speak  of  the  failure  of  The  Dispatch  I  mean  com- 
parative failure.  It's  losing  now  .  .  .  but  not  so 
much  as  it  lost  at  first.  Next  year  it  should  do  bet- 
ter. I  don't  mean  that  it  will  be  profitable.  I 
doubt  if  you'll  ever  take  out  much  more  than  you 
put  in.  Still  .  .  ." 

"  Mr.  Good,"  she  interrupted  severely,  "  you 
annoy  me.  Here  you  are  talking  about  profit. 
Did  you  ever  talk  profit  before?  Did  I  go  into  it 
for  profit?  Has  any  of  the  money  I've  given  to 
the  church  ever  paid  any  dividends  ?  Is  charity  prof- 


"TEARS  .  .  .  AND  THEN  ICE"      259 

itable  ?  You're  utterly  absurd.  Let's  have  no  more 
of  this  sorry  pessimism.  Profit !  Really,  you 
amaze  me." 

"  You  amaze  me  more,"  said  Good  with  a  quiz- 
zical smile.  Suddenly  his  voice  changed  and  his 
eyes  closed.  "  The  whole  problem  of  life,"  he  mur- 
mured dreamily,  "  is  to  reconcile  the  soul  and  the 
body.  Part  of  us  is  kin  to  the  angels.  We  get  very 
near  to  heaven,  sometimes.  We  all  have  our  mo- 
ments of  strength.  We  leave  the  clay  —  but  we 
fall  back.  Hell  is  only  the  burden  of  flesh.  Ah 
well  —  I've  had  my  moment.  Some  day  I  may  have 
another.  Perhaps  here.  Perhaps  not.  Perhaps 
what  I  have  seen  of  heaven  will  come  to  someone 
else.  Maybe  that's  the  true  reincarnation.  We  die 
and  our  light  goes  out.  Perhaps  we  weaken  and  put 
it  out  ourselves.  But  maybe  it  does  not  really  go 
out  at  all.  Who  knows?  It  may  have  been  taken 
from  us  and  placed  in  fresh  hands  —  and  so,  on  and 
on,  through  struggle  and  failure,  and  success  and 
treachery  and  cowardice  and  courage  .  .  .  until  the 
great  purpose  of  it  all  is  realised.  We're  only 
woodpeckers  on  a  tree.  And  Igdrasil  is  mighty. 
Some  peck  more,  some  peck  less  —  none  does 
much.  But  perhaps  it's  only  how  we  peck  that 
counts.  Maybe  so  —  maybe  so  .  .  ." 

His  voice  died  away  and  he  covered  his  face  with 
his  hands.  It  seemed  to  Judith  that  a  veil  had  been 


260  THIRTY 

momentarily  raised,  permitting  a  glimpse  into  a  heart 
which  was  bruised  and  weary,  but  in  which  courage 
—  the  courage  which  has  known  defeat,  the  noblest 
of  all  —  still  reigned.  The  walls  of  the  familiar 
room  faded  into  illimitable  distance,  the  breeze 
rustling  the  leaves  outside  sank  suddenly,  and  out 
of  the  silence  came  a  sweet,  mysterious  song  filling 
her  heart  with  exaltation,  a  sense  of  grace  which 
hurt. 

Then  the  light  declined  quickly,  and  there  was  a 
crimson  glow  in  the  west,  gradually  purpling. 

"  I  must  go,"  he  said  abruptly.     "  It's  late.'* 

"  Oh  —  won't  you  stay  to  dinner?  " 

"  No." 

His  negative  was  too  final  for  her  to  press  that 
topic  further.  She  chose  another. 

"  Let's  see  the  sunset  first.  We  may  have  no 
more  days  like  this." 

"  I  am  quite  sure  of  that."  The  words  were 
murmured  under  his  breath.  They  seemed  to  Ju- 
dith, still  under  the  mysterious  spell  which  had  been 
cast  about  her,  to  be  fraught  with  solemn  signifi- 
cance. Suddenly  she  realised  that  it  was  cold.  She 
shivered  even  when  she  had  donned  her  coat. 

Quite  silently  they  walked  into  the  garden,  and 
without  either  speaking,  went  straight  to  the  spot 
where  thpir  lines  of  life  had  first  crossed.  He 
looked  about  him,  a  twisted  little  smile  on  his  lips. 


"TEARS  .  .  .  AND  THEN  ICR"     261 

"  Here  is  where  Roger  wanted  to  have  me  thrown 
out,"  he  said  thoughtfully.  "  Shouldn't  wonder  if 
he  regretted  now  that  he  didn't." 

"  Roger  cares  for  you  more  than  any  other  man 
in  the  world,"  she  cried.  There  was  a  catch  in  her 
voice,  why,  she  did  not  know.  '  You've  done  won- 
ders —  you've  made  that  boy  a  man.  You're  his 
mainstay.  I  can't  ever  ..."  She  attributed  the 
lump  which  persisted  in  rising  in  her  throat  to  her 
affection  for  her  brother.  That  is,  she  tried  to  at- 
tribute it  to  that.  # 

"  I'm  his  mainstay  no  longer,"  he  corrected  her 
gravely.  "  I  did  what  I  could  for  him.  Now  it's 
up  to  Molly.  But  her  task  is  easy.  The  boy's 
under  his  own  steam  now." 

"  You  think  so?  "  The  pride  and  joy  in  her  eyes 
were  unmistakable.  But  there  was  something  else 
there  which  one  less  obtuse  than  Good  would  have 
seen  even  more  clearly. 

"  No  question  about  it.  He  took  hold  from  the 
start.  He's  proved  his  ability.  He's  the  actual 
business  head  of  the  organisation  now  —  truly  he  is. 
When  Jenkins  left,  Roger  stepped  right  into  his 
place  and  the  ranks  never  wavered.  The  lad's  been 
slow  in  finding  himself  —  no  doubt  of  that.  But 
that's  all  over.  His  girl's  wise  —  she  knows.  The 
world  will  know  it  soon,  too.  Why,  if  I  wasn't  there 
to  prevent  it,  he'd  make  The  Dispatch  into  a  money- 


262  THIRTY 

maker  in  no  time !  "  The  last  words  were  said  with 
a  twinkle  in  his  eyes,  but  it  seemed  to  Judith  that  a 
certain  sadness  lay  behind  the  jest. 

"  I'm  so  glad,"  she  cried.  "  He's  meant  so  much 
to  me." 

"  Doesn't  he  now?  "  he  smiled. 

"  Of  course.  But  I  don't  see  much  of  him  now. 
He's  at  the  Wolcotts'  constantly.  He's  almost  as 
fond  of  the  Judge,  you  know,  as  he  is  of  Molly." 

"  So  I've  heard,"  said  Good  with  a  curious  little 
laugh  which  she  did  not  understand. 

"  He  has  good  stuff  in  him  —  and  bad.  I  never 
knew  which  would  triumph." 

"  And  you  never  will,"  he  said  simply.  "  He's 
human,  you  know.  But  the  odds  are  on  your  side 
now." 

u  I'm  so  glad  —  so  glad  —  and  so  grateful  .  .  ." 

They  were  silent  again.  Suddenly  the  darkness 
fell,  blotting  out  everything  around  them.  Lights 
began  to  twinkle  through  the  trees.  A  dog  barked 
mournfully.  It  was  much  colder.  As  the  daylight 
passed,  the  world  passed  with  it.  They  were  iso- 
lated, Judith's  beauty  and  her  home  and  the  polish 
of  her  finger-nails  as  buried  in  oblivion  as  the  gaunt 
ugliness  of  the  man  beside  her.  All  the  horde  of 
little  things,  which  in  the  day  mattered  so  much,  now 
seemed  to  matter  not  at  all.  They  stood,  naked  of 
all  trappings,  soul  to  soul. 


"  TEARS  .  .  .  AND  THEN  ICE  "     263 

"  I've  got  to  go,"  muttered  Good  in  a  constrained, 
choked  voice.  "  It's  late."  But  he  made  no  move. 
They  continued  to  stare  at  each  other. 

"It's  turning  cold,"  she  said  —  because  she  had 
to  say  something. 

The  man  sighed  heavily.  '  There  will  be  no 
more  days  like  this,"  he  said,  more  to  himself  than 
to  her. 

"  What  do  you  mean?  "  She  was  conscious  of  a 
look  in  his  eyes  and  a  sound  in  his  voice  which  she 
had  never  experienced  before. 

"  You  know  well  what  I  mean !  "  Without  warn- 
ing his  lean  hand  shot  out  and  seized  hers  with  a 
grasp  which  almost  made  her  wince.  '  You  know 
well  that  I  love  you,  Judith  Wynrod."  The  words 
rushed  through  his  clenched  teeth  and  struck  her  ears 
like  bullets.  "  You  know  it  well,"  he  added  fiercely. 
She  stood  very  still,  looking  into  eyes  which  smoul- 
dered before  her  like  banked  fires. 

'  You're  hurting  my  hand,"  she  whispered.     In- 
stantly she  wished  she  had  not  said  that. 

His  voice  changed.  "  I'm  sorry,"  he  said  softly. 
"I  wasn't  thinking  —  of  your  hand."  Slowly  she 
withdrew  her  fingers  from  his.  He  made  no  move 
to  retake  them.  For  a  little  while  he  was  silent. 
When  he  spoke  again  his  tone  was  different.  The 
fierceness  had  departed.  Instead,  it  was  wistful, 
and  it  struck  her  that  he  was  repeating  something 


264  THIRTY 

which  he  had  memorised  a  long  time  ago.  She  had 
a  curious  feeling  that  he  would  be  saying  it  even  if 
she  were  not  there  to  listen.  The  words  came 
slowly,  as  if  each  one  had  been  weighed  and  tested. 

"  I've  always  been  a  lonely  chap.  I  never  had 
any  friends  —  except  dogs  and  drunks  and  beggars 
and  bad  boys.  Women  always  laughed  at  me.  I 
was  too  sentimental.  Men  shouldn't  be  that,  you 
know.  After  Zbysko  went  out  there  wasn't  any- 
body. About  all  I  had  —  more  than  other  men  — 
was  imagination.  When  I  went  down,  that  made 
me  go  further  than  most.  There  were  times  .  .  . 
I'm  not  ashamed  nor  sorry  .  .  .  they  just  happened 
—  like  starvation.  Some  men  are  decent  because 
they  have  to  get  on.  I  couldn't  seem  to  get  on. 
For  a  while  I  gave  up  trying.  Imagination  and  an 
empty  stomach  and  no  one  to  care  .  .  .  well,  life 
never  had  much  in  it  for  me  —  until  I  knew  you. 
You  were  the  first  good  woman  who  had  ever  re- 
membered me  from  one  day  to  another.  I  fan- 
cied ...  I  mattered  to  you.  I  liked  to  think  that  I 
was  a  part  of  your  life  —  even  such  a  small  part. 
It  was  gratitude  at  first.  Then  it  grew  and  grew  un- 
til—  you  see  what  a  curse  imagination  can  be!  If 
I'd  been  an  ordinary,  sensible  person,  I'd  never  have 
let  myself  go.  But  I  dallied  with  the  idea.  I  gave 
myself  up  to  it.  And  then  it  got  too  strong  for  me. 
I  don't  know  why  I  burst  out  like  this  to-day.  I 


"  TEARS  .  .  .  AND  THEN  ICE  "     265 

should  have  kept  it  to  myself.  There  was  no  need 
for  you  to  know.  I  was  a  fool  .  .  .  oh,  a  dreadful 
fool!  "  He  sighed  heavily  and  was  silent. 

"  I  never  dreamed  .  .  ."  she  breathed. 

"  That's  not  true,"  he  said  gravely.  "  You 
thought  of  it  often.  You're  too  wise  not  to.  I 
could  see  it  in  your  eyes.  You  didn't  want  to  — 
you  had  to.  You're  a  woman." 

"  Mr.  Good,  I  can't  tell  you  how  much  this  means 
to  me.  I  do  care  for  you  .  .  .  very  much  —  more 

—  more  — "     She  hesitated  and  stopped.     The  in- 
adequacy and  stiffness  of  her  words  were  distress- 
ingly evident.     Even  in  the  dusk  she  could  see  the 
dull  pain  in  his  eyes.     They  had  the  expression  of 
some  wounded,  helpless  animal. 

"  Please  don't,"  he  begged.  "  I  understand. 
When  I  hurt  your  hand  .  .  .  that  was  enough.  It's 
quite  impossible,  of  course."  Never,  to  the  end  of 
her  days,  would  she  forget  the  dreary  hopelessness 
in  his  voice,  the  bent  shoulders,  the  hand  uplifted  in 
deprecation.  She  wanted  to  throw  her  arms  about 
him,  as  she  would  with  Roger.  Something  held  her 

—  she  could  not  move.     The  tears  blinded  her  .  .  . 
"  But  you  didn't  finish,"  he  shot  at  her  suddenly. 

"More  —  more  —  than  any  other  man  .  .  .  was 
that  what  you  were  going  to  say?  " 

And  when  she  made  no  reply,  he  laughed,  a  little 
bitterly,  a  little  tenderly  —  quite  mirthlessly. 


266  THIRTY 

"  I  thought  not.  Well  ...  I  used  to  hate  him. 
I  used  to  hate  him  very  much  —  for  other  reasons, 
too.  But  he's  not  the  man  now  that  he  was.  He's 
been  through  the  fire.  He's  better  metal  now. 
He's  tempered.  The  dross  is  gone.  He's  not 
worthy  of  you  .  .  .  who  is?" 

Suddenly  Judith's  tongue  was  loosed.  "  You 
don't  understand,"  she  cried,  with  an  earnestness  of 
which  there  could  be  no  question.  "  There  is  no 
other  man.  I  care  for  you  .  .  .  very  much.  Oh, 
I  do  — I  do  .  .  ." 

"  Then  .  .  .  would  you  marry  me  —  will  you?  " 
There  was  a  subtle  note  of  irony  in  his  voice  which 
was  not  lost  upon  her.  But  she  did  not  reply  and 
he  too  was  silent  for  a  moment.  When  he  spoke 
again  the  irony  was  less  subtle. 

"You  care  enough  to  marry  me  if — if  .  .  . 
things  were  different?" 

"  I  don't  understand."  Her  voice  sounded  very 
far  away,  as  if  it  did  not  belong  to  her  at  all. 

"  Oh,  yes,  you  do,  Judith  Wynrod,"  he  said 
harshly,  like  a  magistrate  passing  sentence.  She 
thought  she  had  never  heard  a  voice  so  cold  and  ter- 
rible, so  cruelly  impersonal.  But,  without  warn- 
ing, it  changed,  and  she  knew  that  she  had  never 
heard  such  infinite  tenderness. 

"  Oh,  yes,  you  do  .  .  ."  It  seemed  to  come  from 
a  great  distance,  like  the  soughing  of  the  wind  in 


"  TEARS  .  .  .  AND  THEN  ICE  "     267 

the  trees,  sad,  mysterious,  supernatural.  It  was 
not  Good's  voice,  but  something  vast,  inchoate, 
nameless.  She  shivered  and  drew  her  coat  more 
closely  about  her. 

"  But  you're  human,"  the  voice  went  on.  "  You 
have  more  angel  in  you  than  most  —  but  you're  not 
an  angel.  You're  wise  —  very  wise,  Judith  Wyn- 
rod  —  too  wise  to  be  an  angel.  Heaven  is  for  the 
fools.  The  wise  have  the  earth.  It's  the  little 
things  —  like  table  manners  and  polished  shoes  — 
that  keep  us  out  of  heaven.  I'm  fool  enough  to 
brave  these  little  things.  But  you're  wise.  You 
know  that  they  would  increase  and  multiply  and  crush 
us  both,  because  they  are  stronger  than  we.  If  we 
were  souls  —  merely  souls  —  it  would  be  different. 
But  I'm  a  man.  You're  human,  too.  If  we  were 
souls  alone  —  less  human  —  less  wise  —  the  little 
things  —  would  not  matter.  But  we  aren't  just 
souls.  No,  we  are  not  —  we  are  not  .  .  ." 

The  tender,  wistful  voice  died  away.  The  world 
seemed  very  distant  to  Judith  for  a  moment,  and 
only  this  man,  who  talked  like  a  god  —  or  an  idiot  — 
mattered.  There  was  a  tense,  fleeting  moment, 
when,  had  Good  known  it,  the  course  of  both  their 
lives  might  have  been  changed.  But  he  did  not 
know  it.  The  moment  passed.  The  wind  sighed 
in  the  trees  again.  The  myriad  noises  of  the  night 
were  loosed.  A  locomotive  whistled  dismally.  A 


268  THIRTY 

thousand  tentacles  seemed  to  come  down  on  Judith 
and  overwhelm  her  and  bind  her  fast;  and  with  the 
sound  of  the  whistle  she  knew  that  the  world  was 
with  her  once  more.  She  had  been  an  angel  for  a 
moment.  She  was  one  no  longer.  The  tears  fell 
unchecked. 

"  It's  funny,  isn't  it,"  Good  was  saying  in  a  mat- 
ter-of-fact tone,  "  that  the  trifles  —  things  we  really 
don't  value  at  all  —  should  keep  people  from  the 
one  thing  that  counts.  Queer  world,  this.  But  it's 
one  of  the  rules  of  the  game.  It's  silly  to  complain. 
As  well  mock  the  stars."  His  voice  broke  miser- 
ably and  he  covered  his  face  with  his  hands.  As 
she  stared  miserably  at  the  stooped,  shabby  figure 
of  the  truest  friend  she  had  ever  known,  she  felt 
very  small  and  mean  and  ineffective,  wishing  that 
she  might  say  something  which  would  comfort  him, 
knowing  that  anything  she  could  say  would  hurt  him 
more  than  silence.  She  was  shamed  by  her  impo- 
tency.  But  when  she  thought  of  the  bright  cama- 
raderie which  had  been  between  them,  and  would  be 
no  more,  she  was  angry.  Why  had  he  spoiled  it 
all?  Why  had  he  not  let  things  be?  She  was 
aroused  from  her  reverie  by  the  sound  of  his  desolate 
voice. 

"  Truly,  it  is  the  last  day.  Tears  .  .  .  and  then 
ice."  He  paused.  "  It  will  rain  presently,  I  think 
—  with  snow,"  he  added  quite  calmly. 


"  TEARS  .  .  .  AND  THEN  ICE  "     269 

Almost  as  he  spoke  the  rain  began.  They  parted 
hurriedly.  There  was  a  quick  hand-shake,  a  mur- 
mured word,  and  she  was  fleeing  from  him  with  the 
print  of  his  lips  still  hot  on  her  fingers. 

It  was  an  utterly  wretched  woman  who  sat  star- 
ing for  hours  afterward  at  the  blank  wall  before  her. 
And  it  was  a  hopeless,  beaten  man  who  trudged 
through  the  dripping  trees  toward  the  station. 
Fate  had  had  its  pleasure  with  both.  Tired  of  the 
sport,  it  had  crushed  them  like  eggshells. 


CHAPTER  XII 

ONLY   A   WOMAN 

THE  next  day  Judith  returned  to  the  city.  Winter 
had  arrived  in  earnest  and  there  were  other  reasons 
why  Braeburn  had  become  impossible.  She  drove 
to  the  station  in  a  storm  of  blinding  sleet,  while  the 
wind,  howling  through  trees  suddenly  become  gaunt, 
seemed  to  shriek  and  gibber  with  derision  at  her  go- 
ing. 

But  the  city  house  had  its  memories,  too.  Recol- 
lections clustered  everywhere,  mocking  her.  She 
made  up  her  mind  impulsively  that  she  would  go  to 
Florida.  It  was  out  of  season  of  course,  but  it 
would  be  the  more  restful  for  that.  She  felt  very 
tired.  She  even  consulted  time  tables. 

But  one  afternoon,  when  she  was  in  her  motor, 
she  saw  Imrie.  She  followed  him  with  her  eyes 
until  he  disappeared.  She  had  not  seen  him  for 
months,  though  she  knew  in  a  vague  sort  of  way, 
what  he  was  doing.  He  was  perfectly  justified, 
of  course,  in  neglecting  her.  She  had  surely  done 
nothing  to  encourage  his  attentions.  In  fact  she 
had  done  not  a  little  to  discourage  them  completely. 
Nevertheless  his  indifference  piqued  her.  She  de- 

270 


ONLY  A  WOMAN  271 

cided  not  to  go  to  Florida, —  at  least  not  until  Jan- 
uary. 

The  real  reason  for  the  postponement,  she  man- 
aged to  convince  herself,  was  her  talk  with  Mrs. 
Dodson. 

It  occurred  at  a  little  dinner  party  given  by  Mrs. 
Weidely,  a  lady  of  the  most  unimpeachable  conven- 
tionality, who  satisfied  an  unsuspected  craving  of  her 
nature  by  gathering  about  her  the  most  thoroughly 
unconventional  people  she  could  find.  Had  her  hus- 
band, now  deceased,  not  been  the  upright  president 
of  a  very  large  bank,  and  were  her  house  not,  in 
consequence,  situated  in  a  location  of  indisputable 
respectability,  these  dynamic  assemblies  would  have 
been  held  with  the  attentive  co-operation  of  the 
police,  a  condition  with  which  some  of  her  guests 
as  a  matter  of  fact  were  not  at  all  unfamiliar. 

Mrs.  Dodson,  who  went  out  very  little,  was  pres- 
ent chiefly  because  Mrs.  Weidely  was  a  friend  of 
long  standing,  whose  almost  tearful  assurance  that 
her  absence  would  ruin  the  evening,  had  been  too 
touching  for  resistance.  Mrs.  Dodson  was  a  kind- 
hearted,  if  not  particularly  credulous,  woman. 

Wrhen  Judith  arrived,  having  been  invited,  she 
suspected,  chiefly  to  give  "  balance  "  to  the  affair, 
a  young  man  with  a  narrow,  equine  face  and  a  great 
deal  of  coarse  black  hair,  who  she  afterwards  learned 
was  named  Klemm,  was  standing  in  front  of  the 


272  THIRTY 

fireplace,  his  legs  wide  apart,  and  talking  very  rap- 
idly, in  a  high,  thin  voice,  punctuating  his  sentences 
with  rapier-like  movements  of  his  long,  sharp  fingers., 

He  was  a  poet,  whose  ready  flow  of  language, 
with  its  glowing  flights  of  hyperbole,  had  once  re- 
acted unfavourably  upon  a  too  literal-minded  police- 
man, with  a  consequent  very  actual  fortnight  in  jail. 
It  had  been  a  distinctly  unpleasant  experience,  but 
one  which  he  would  not  have  escaped  for  worlds. 
Its  immediate  effect  was  a  volume  of  lurid  verse, 
which  had  a  very  wide  sale.  And  ever  afterward 
he  was  able  to  denounce  things  as  they  were,  with 
the  assurance  of  one  who  knew  whereof  he  spoke. 
He  was  young  in  years,  but  —  he  had  lived  —  he  had 
suffered.  .  .  . 

"Charity  —  pah!"  he  declared  with  finality. 
"  It  is  futile,  childish,  debasing  —  both  to  them  that 
give  and  them  that  receive.  It  is  abomination  — 
the  more  organised,  the  worse  it  becomes.  It  is  like 
all  —  reform."  The  fine  scorn  with  which  he  spoke 
would  have  made  the  word  shrivel  up  and  disappear, 
had  it  been  a  material  organism. 

"  And  for  reform  you  would  substitute  —  revolu- 
tion?" Judith  was  conscious  of  Mrs.  Dodson's 
firm,  level  voice,  contrasting  rather  unexpectedly 
with  the  uncertain  falsetto  of  Mr.  Klemm. 

"Revolution  —  yes!"  The  accompanying  ges- 
ture was  splendidly  dramatic.  "  A  man's  word," 


ONLY  A  WOMAN  273 

he  added,  sternly,  but  unfortunately  in  a  tone  which 
was  somewhat  feminine. 

"  So  far  as  I  know,"  said  Mrs.  Dodson,  quietly, 
without  any  dramatic  effect,  but  in  a  way  which  car- 
ried conviction,  "  the  real  progress  of  the  world  has 
been  by  evolution.  Revolution  has  usually  been  fol- 
lowed by  reaction,  the  net  advantage  being  no 
greater  than  is  secured  day  after  day,  year  after 
year,  by  the  despised  reformers.  Most  of  the  revo- 
lutionists I  know  —  talk.  The  world  needs  — 
work!" 

It  was  a  stinging  rebuke.  Mr.  Klemm,  not  easily 
silenced,  had  no  more  to  say.  He  seemed  relieved 
when  dinner  was  announced. 

Judith,  herself,  felt  vaguely  shamed.  The  past 
year,  begun  with  such  hopes,  such  fine  purpose  — 
what  had  it  all  amounted  to  —  but  talk?  What  had 
she  done?  What  was  she  but  Good's  cheque-book? 
What  would  she  do  were  he  removed?  What  was 
she  —  herself  —  alone  —  ? 

She  was  silent  at  dinner,  dimly  conscious  that  the 
man  beside  her  was  talking  very  earnestly  about  a 
certain  philosophy  of  painting.  She  knew  only  that 
what  he  said  was  of  no  interest  to  her.  Somehow, 
in  her  awakening  conception  of  the  bigness  and  yet 
the  simplicity  of  life,  and  of  the  part  she  wanted  to 
play  in  it,  the  aesthetic  arts  seemed  irrelevant.  She 
had  always  been  ignorant  of  painting  and  music, 


274  THIRTY 

caring  for  them  only  as  pretty  pictures  or  melodious 
diversion.  Now,  she  no  longer  cared  even  to  pre- 
tend that  she  was  not  indifferent.  Hitherto  she  had 
lumped  such  culture  with  dress  and  servants  and  fine 
houses  —  only  one  among  the  many  "  little  things." 
Art  had  been  in  no  way  vital  to  her:  she  knew  no 
one,  not  even  the  "  collectors,"  to  whom  it  was. 
Art,  to  them,  as  well  as  to  her,  was  merely  one,  and 
a  comparatively  unimportant  one,  of  the  conventions 
which  went  to  make  up  the  life  of  the  "  upper 
classes."  Though  she  herself  owned  some  of  the 
finest  paintings  in  America,  she  frankly  admitted 
that  they  really  meant  no  more  to  her  than  the  silver 
plate  from  which  she  dined.  She  smiled  as  portions 
of  the  argot  the  painter  beside  her  was  using,  filtered 
into  her  consciousness.  The  poor  creature  doubt- 
less thought  he  was  flattering  her.  She  wanted  to 
tell  him  candidly  how  little  his  silly  chatter  interested 
her.  Why  did  he  not  tell  her  something  of  real 
value,  something  which  would  help  her  find  herself, 
something  which  would  make  her  matter  in  the  real 
world  of  real  things,  so  that  when  she  was  gone  there 
would  be  a  vacancy  to  fill  ?  Art !  She  turned  away 
in  disgust  she  could  not  conceal. 

Mrs.  Weidely's  was  a  large  house,  with  countless 
little  nooks  and  crannies  where  one  desirous  of  soli- 
tude might  steal  away  and  find  it.  Mrs.  Dodson, 
Judith  suspected,  was  as  bored  as  she.  It  was  a 


ONLY  A  WOMAN  275 

simple  matter  to  suggest  an  escape  with  her  into  one 
of  these  refuges.  The  older  woman  was  frankly 
grateful  for  the  idea.  When  they  were  seated,  with 
the  chatter  of  the  company  drifting  faintly  to  them 
like  the  far-off  rattle  of  musketry,  Judith  voiced  her 
problem.  Mrs.  Dodson  heard  her  to  the  end  in 
silence,  with  a  faint  suggestion  of  a  smile  on  her 
finely-cut  lips. 

"  You  are  just  where  I  was,"  she  said  when  Judith 
had  finished  the  recital,  "  many  years  ago.  Only 
I  was  not  so  conscious  of  things  as  you  are  —  and 
I  had  not  done  what  you  have  done." 

"  You  mean  —  The  Dispatch?  " 

1  Yes.  That  is  doing  a  splendid  work  —  it  is 
waking  people  up." 

"  But  I  haven't  done  it.  It's  no  credit  to  me, 
really." 

"  I  know.  But  you  made  it  possible.  Perhaps 
you  haven't  done  as  much  for  it  as  it  has  done  for 
you.  But  in  either  case,  much  has  been  accom- 
plished." 

"  Oh,  Mrs.  Dodson  —  if  I  could  only  do  what 
you  have  done  —  be  what  you  are.  .  .  ."  There 
was  no  pretence  in  Judith's  admiration  as  she  looked 
up  into  the  quiet,  kindly  face  of  one  of  the  most  mis- 
understood women  of  her  community.  It  was  not 
a  beautiful  face.  Nature  had  not  been  kind  to  it. 
But  it  was  a  face  which,  once  looked  upon,  could 


276  THIRTY 

never  afterward  be  forgotten.  It  had  the  beauty 
which  comes  of  strength  and  courage  and  travail, 
the  beauty  with  which  one  is  never  born,  but  which 
must  be  made.  It  was  the  face  of  one  who  has 
grasped  life  firmly  with  both  hands,  and  through 
pain  and  discouragement,  has  hewn  something  which 
must  endure  always. 

Mrs.  Dodson  was  silent  at  Judith's  honest,  if  girl- 
ish, outburst.  She  smiled  sadly,  and  her  eyes 
clouded. 

"  I  have  done  little,"  she  said  softly.  "  And  I 
am  —  little.  I  saw  my  road,  long  ago.  I  see  it 
more  clearly  every  day.  But  I'm  not  big  enough  to 
follow  it  —  very  far.  I'm  too  timid.  To  go  on 
that  road,  where  I  know  I  should  go  —  where  I 
know  better  and  better  as  the  years  come  —  I  should 
have  had  to  leave  everything  behind.  I  wasn't  equal 
to  that.  Those  little  things  —  they  didn't  mean 
much  —  they  don't  now  .  .  .  but  I  can't  shake  them 
off  —  quite.  I  can't  follow  the  road  and  take  them 
too.  And  I  can't  rest  with  them  and  forget  the  road. 
So  I've  —  tried  to  do  both.  I  can't,  of  course  — 
but  I  try.  I  try  very  hard.  It  makes  me  enemies. 
It  makes  me  unhappy.  Even  my  children  —  I've 
stayed  partly  for  them  —  the  road  led  to  such  a  wild 
and  desolate  country  —  even  they  don't  understand. 
Perhaos  that's  why  I  was  so  cruel  to  that  young  man 


ONLY  A  WOMAN  277 

to-night.  He  said  things  that  I  wanted  to  say  — 
and  couldn't." 

Mrs.  Dodson,  suddenly  looking  very  old  and 
tired  and  weak,  faded  away,  and  in  her  place  Judith 
saw  Good.  "  If  we  were  angels,"  he  was  saying. 
"  If  .  .  .  but  we're  not.  We're  only  humans.  .  .  ." 

Then  Good  vanished,  and  Mrs.  Dodson,  again 
her  quiet,  efficient  self,  reappeared.  Her  voice  had 
changed,  too.  It  was  the  calm,  business-like  tone 
which  the  world  knew. 

'  You  have  wealth,  my  dear.  The  pleasures  of 
society  no  longer  appeal.  You  have  made  a  start. 
I  see  no  reason  for  discouragement." 

"  But  I  want  to  start"  cried  Judith.  "  I  want  to 
feel  my  hands  on  something." 

"  There  are  a  number  of  committees  and  boards 
on  which  you  might  serve  — " 

"  Oh,  but  that's  the  ordinary  thing.  I've  done 
that." 

"  Not  exactly."  Mrs.  Dodson's  voice  was  a 
trifle  grim.  "  You  were  a  sociological  dilettante. 
You  were  an  amateur,  so  to  speak." 

"  But  it's  so  cut-and-dried." 

"  You  must  first  learn  the  ropes.  You  have  to 
know  your  tools  before  you  can  use  them.  It  will 
be  dry  and  tedious,  of  course,  and  there  will  be  no 
sense  of  accomplishment.  It  will  be  educational. 


THIRTY 

The  accomplishment  —  such  as  it  is  —  will  come 
later." 

"And  then  —  when  it  comes  —  it  will  be  re- 
form? "  She  wondered  why  the  implication  was  so 
distasteful. 

"  Yes,  my  dear.  You  have  too  much  to  be  a  revo- 
lutionary. You  remember  the  story  of  the  Rich 
Young  Man.  It  was  always  so.  He  was  asked  to 
give  up  everything.  He  could  not.  I  could  not. 
You  cannot.  You  may  give  more  than  I  —  in  some 
ways  you  already  have.  But  you  will  not  give  all. 
You  will  always  be  a  — " 

" —  reformer,"  interrupted  Judith  bitterly. 

"  Yes,"  continued  Mrs.  Dodson,  gently,  "  only  a 
reformer.  Your  influence  will  die  with  you.  You 
will  pass  very  little  on.  The  radicals  will  hate  and 
ridicule  you.  Even  those  you  help  will  distrust  you. 
And  what  is  worse  —  you  will  some  day  come  to  dis- 
trust them." 

"  Then  why  go  forward?  "  cried  Judith.  "  Why 
not  stay  where  I  am  and  be  comfortable?  " 

Mrs.  Dodson  smiled  wisely.  "  Because  you  can't. 
I  remember  hearing  a  gushing  young  thing  ask  a  great 
novelist  if  he  didn't  just  love  to  write.  His  reply 
was,  '  I  loathe  it.'  When  she  looked  her  amaze- 
ment—  as  we  all  did  —  he  added,  'I'm  miserable 
when  I  write,  but  I'm  more  miserable  when  I  don't.' 
We  thought  he  was  just  posing,  but  I  know  now  what 


ONLY  A  WOMAN  279 

he  meant.  I  understand  perfectly.  I  loathe  the 
wretched  futility  of  the  work  I  do,  with  its  everlast- 
ing cowardice  and  compromise.  I  wish  I  could  go 
back  to  the  life  for  which  I  was  born  and  bred,  which 
even  those  dearest  to  me,  lead  now.  But  I  can't  do 
that.  Life  as  it  is,  is  unsatisfying.  But  any  other 
would  be  worse." 

"  Why,  I  always  thought  you  so  happy  —  one  of 
the  happiest  women  I  knew,"  cried  Judith  in  amaze- 
ment. 

"  Oh,  well  — "  Mrs.  Dodson's  sigh  defied  an- 
alysis. "  Such  things  are  relative."  She  was  silent 
for  a  moment.  Then  her  voice  reverted  to  its  tone 
of  business.  "  But  come  —  that's  enough  philoso- 
phy. If  you  talk  too  much  it  interferes  with  doing. 
Now,  if  you  care  to  come,  I'll  have  you  to  lunch  with 
me  to-morrow.  I'll  have  some  work  waiting  for 
you.  And  when  that  is  finished,  there  will  be  more 
to  follow.  Will  you  come  ?  " 

Judith  looked  into  the  kindly  grey  eyes,  so  plainly 
studying  her,  and  was  ashamed  of  the  reluctance  and 
disappointment  she  felt.  She  nodded  her  head  af- 
firmatively. Was  life  always  a  compromise  like 
this?  Must  noble  aspirations  forever  fade  away  in 
the  cold  light  of  fact?  The  older  woman  seemed  to 
sense  her  thought,  for  she  smiled  and  patted  her 
shoulder  gently. 

"  My  dear  little  girl  —  I  understand.     And  so 


28o  THIRTY 

will  you  —  when  you  find  yourself.  The  world's 
made  up  of  doers  and  dreamers.  The  doers  dream 
a  little  and  the  dreamers  do  a  little  —  it  is  not  given 
to  many  to  be  both.  Dream  a  little,  always,  my 
dear,  for  the  good  of  your  soul.  And  listen  always 
to  the  dreamers,  even  when  their  dreams  seem  non- 
sense. But  you  mustn't  be  sad  because  you  are  only 
an  agent.  We  are  not  less  human  because  we  are 
not  gods.  We  have  our  place  in  the  scheme  of 
things :  we  must  fill  it  —  awkwardly,  incompletely, 
stupidly  —  still,  as  best  we  may." 

They  parted  then,  and  as  soon  as  she  decently 
could,  Judith  assured  Mrs.  Weidely  of  the  "  per- 
fectly delightful "  evening  she  had  had,  and  went 
home.  It  was  a  long  time  before  she  could  sleep. 

She  spent  the  morning  wandering  restlessly 
through  the  house.  Was  she  always,  she  asked  her- 
self again  and  again,  to  be  subject  to  the  influence 
of  others?  Was  she  never  to  act  for  herself?  Of 
the  influence  of  Good  upon  her,  she  was  quite  con- 
scious. But  that,  she  sensed,  could  never  be  again 
as  it  was  before  that  afternoon  at  Braeburn.  When 
the  snow  began  to  fall,  it  had  ended  his  call,  the  call 
of  the  dreamer.  He  had  given  her  all  he  had.  It 
was  not  enough.  Now  came  the  call  of  the  doer. 
Would  that  end  in  time,  as  the  other  had  ended,  and 
would  she  then  go  ahead  for  herself,  not  the  puppet 
of  Brent  Good  nor  the  aid  of  Mrs.  Dodson,  but 


ONLY  A  WOMAN  281 

Judith  Wynrod,  free  agent?  She  wondered,  and 
wondered.  There  was  no  answer. 

At  length,  when  she  could  endure  the  house  no 
longer,  she  went  out  for  a  walk  in  the  frosty  air. 
She  had  an  hour  or  two  before  going  to  Mrs.  Dod- 
son's. 

The  sun  was  shining  brightly,  but  it  was  cold,  and 
she  had  to  walk  rapidly.  Before  she  knew  it,  she 
was  well  into  the  Park,  and  a  little  tired.  A  bench, 
in  the  sun  and  sheltered  from  the  wind,  attracted  her, 
and  still  in  a  reverie,  she  sat  down. 

Presently  she  became  conscious  that  she  was  be- 
ing addressed.  A  young  man  had  seated  himself 
beside  her. 

"  Arnold,"  she  cried.  "  Why  —  I'd  never  know 
you.  .  .  ." 

"  Yes,"  he  said  placidly.  "  I  have  changed, 
haven't  I?" 

As  he  spoke  she  realised  that  he  no  longer  wore 
the  clerical  collar,  and  that  he  was  garbed  in  a  grey 
suit  of  distinctly  fashionable  cut  and  colour,  instead 
of  the  sombre  black  she  had  always  seen  him  in 
before.  Also,  to  her  amazement,  she  noted  that  he 
wore  a  red  tie.  Perhaps  it  was  merely  the  change 
of  costume,  but  he  seemed  years  younger  than  he 
had  ever  seemed  before.  His  face  was  ruddier,  his 
eyes  had  more  sparkle,  his  smile  was  easier. 

"But   why  —  what   is   the   cause  —  what's   hap- 


282  THIRTY 

pened  —  what's  the  meaning  of  all  this?  "  she  stam- 
mered. 

"  I've  moved  fast  since  we  last  met.  As  a  matter 
of  fact,  Judith,  you're  looking  on  a  perfect  stran- 
ger!" 

"  That's  obvious  —  but  why  —  what  —  I  don't 
understand." 

"  In  the  first  place  I'm  not  a  clergyman  any  more 

—  for  which  there  is  no  rejoicing:  but  in  the  second, 
I'm  not  a  prig  any  more  —  for  which  there  is  .  .  ." 

"Arnold  —  you've  really  left  the  Church?" 
"  Or  it's  left  me  —  the  result's  the  same,"  he  said 
quite  cheerfully. 

"  But  what  caused  it?     I  heard  you  had  resigned 

—  everybody  talked  about  it  —  but  why  ?  " 

"  I  don't  suppose  you  ever  saw  a  '  slide '  at 
Panama?  " 

She  shook  her  head,  wondering. 

"  Well,  first  a  piece  of  rock,  perhaps  no  bigger 
than  your  fist,  slips  out  of  place.  That  moves  an- 
other and  another  and  another,  until  before  you  can 
whistle  twice,  a  pile  of  earth  that  has  seemed  as 
fixed  as  time  is  as  flat  as  the  back  of  your  hand. 

"  That's  the  way  it  was  with  me.  A  few  months 
ago  I  thought  my  convictions  were  as  fixed  as  the 
everlasting  hills.  I  looked  solid  —  but  I  wasn't. 
Really,  I  was  made  up  of  very  small  pieces.  Then, 
when  you  poked  fun  at  me,  you  jarred  one  of  those 


ONLY  A  WOMAN  283 

pieces  out  of  place.  That  moved  another  —  and 
another  —  and  another  .  .  .  until  with  a  rush,  the 
whole  thing  came  tumbling  about  my  ears.  When 
the  noise  was  over  and  the  dust  settled,  it  was  up  to 
me  to  set  about  putting  the  pieces  together  again  as 
best  I  could.  I  don't  know  what  kind  of  a  mess  I'd 
have  made  of  it  if  I  hadn't  had  the  luck  to  fall  in 
with  Dr.  Weis  —  perhaps  you've  heard  of  him  ?  " 

"  Only  vaguely,"  admitted  Judith. 

"  Well,  he's  a  Jew  and  a  free  thinker  and  an 
anarchist  and  a  human  fire-brand  —  and  the  most 
all  around  fine  character  I've  ever  known !  Any- 
way, he  took  an  interest  in  me  as  I  floundered  about 
—  he  seems  to  think  he  can  make  something  out  of 
me."  His  mingled  pride  and  humility  was  inde- 
scribably boyish  and  lovable  to  Judith.  He  sounded 
a  new  note,  quite  free  from  the  cant  with  which,  in 
her  mind,  he  had  never  been  quite  disassociated. 

"  And  are  you  happier  now?  "  she  asked  when  he 
paused. 

"  Much,"  he  said  thoughtfully.  "  I  was  success- 
ful at  St.  Viateur's  and  I  was  popular,  and  I  thought 
I  was  doing  good  work.  But  I'm  happier  now  — 
really  I  am  —  consciously  happy,  I  mean.  In  a  way 
I'm  a  failure,  of  course,  and  I've  lost  most  of  my  old 
friends,  but  the  newer  ones  seem  truer  —  and  what 
I've  lost  in  the  respect  of  others,  I've  gained  in  the 
respect  of  myself.  Yes,  I'm  happier  now." 


284  THIRTY 

"  But  what  are  you  doing?  " 

"  Well,  we've  established  a  sort  of  peoples' 
church,  with  meetings  in  one  of  the  downtown 
theatres.  It's  for  those  who  haven't  any  creed,  or 
even  much  faith.  We  seem  to  have  some  kind  of  a 
hold.  There's  rarely  an  empty  seat." 

"  Do  you  preach?  " 

"  Once  in  a  while.  But  I  wouldn't  call  it  preach- 
ing. I've  come  to  dislike  that  word.  This  is  some- 
thing different.  You  can't  preach,  you  know,  to  our 
kind  of  people.  That's  what  made  lots  of  them 
leave  their  churches.  Jesus  never  preached.  But 
oh,  Judith  — "  His  eyes  flashed  and  she  thought 
his  enthusiasm  in  keeping  with  his  red  tie.  He  had 
always  been  so  reserved,  hitherto.  "  I've  never  ex- 
perienced anything  like  talking  to  those  people. 
When  I  was  in  the  pulpit  at  St.  Viateur's,  with  all 
you  comfortable,  smug,  well-fed,  contented  people 
before  me,  talking  to  you  seemed  only  a  form,  and 
what  I  said,  merely  a  formula.  You  didn't  care 
what  I  said,  and  I  didn't  —  it  was  how  I  said  it. 
But  now  —  I  tell  you  there's  an  intoxication  in  talk- 
ing to  people  who've  come  because  they  get  some- 
thing, not  because  they  ought  to,  or  because  it's  the 
thing.  It's  no  wonder  that  the  biggest  men  in  the 
land  are  glad  to  appear  on  our  stage." 

"Do  you  do  any  welfare  work?"  Judith  found 
his  enthusiasm  infectious. 


ONLY  A  WOMAN  285 

"In  a  way  —  mostly  getting  people  jobs  and 
things  like  that.  We're  not  very  well  organised  yet, 
but  we're  working  all  the  time." 

"  I  suppose  —  you  lack  money?  " 

"  Of  course.  That  handicaps  us  tremendously. 
But  .  .  ." 

"  Would  a  cheque  —  be  of  use?  " 

He  looked  at  her  thoughtfully  for  a  moment,  as 
if  not  quite  sure  of  her  meaning.  Then  he  smiled 
and  shook  his  head. 

"  You  don't  understand.  One  of  the  principles 
of  our  plan  is  to  be  beholden  to  no  one.  We  can't 
accept  gifts.  You  see  —  we  want  no  vestries." 
There  was  a  note  of  bitterness  in  his  voice. 

"  But  I  —  surely — "  He  sensed  that  she  was  a 
little  hurt. 

"  We  take  up  a  collection.  You  might  drop  in 
some  night,  and  then  —  if  you  cared  to  .  .  ." 

"  Yes,"  she  said  thoughtfully,  "  I'll  come." 

They  were  silent  for  a  little  while,  but  it  was  a 
silence  in  which  there  was  no  consciousness  of  the 
flight  of  time. 

"  Who  are  your  speakers?"  asked  Judith  finally, 
already  feeling  that  she  had  a  personal  share  in  the 
enterprise.  "Clergymen?" 

"  Sometimes.  But  that's  not  essential.  It's  the 
man  we  seek  —  not  the  creed.  We  want  anyone 
with  a  message.  We've  had  all  kinds.  You  see, 


286  THIRTY 

we're  not  engaged  in  propaganda  —  rather  we're 
spreading  the  truth  —  as  all  kinds  of  men  see  it. 
We're  committed  to  nothing.  It's  a  good  deal  like 
The  Dispatch  —  no  policy  but  the  truth.  By  the 
way,  how's  that  going?  " 

"  As  well  as  could  be  expected,  I  suppose,"  said 
Judith  with  an  apathy  which  did  not  escape  him. 
"  I  really  have  very  little  to  do  with  it." 

"  That's  natural." 

"  I  suppose  so.  Anyway,  Mr.  Good  and  Roger 
need  no  assistance  from  me." 

"  Is  Roger  really  active?  " 

"  Indeed  he  is.  He  used  to  be  rather  submissive 
to  me,  but  now  he  acts  as  if  I  really  knew  very  little 
about  it.  I'm  glad  he  does,  too.  It  shows  he's 
grown  up.  The  best  thing  about  The  Dispatch  is 
what  it's  done  for  Roger." 

"  No,  it  isn't,"  said  Imrie  soberly.  "  That's  a 
good  thing,  of  course.  I'm  delighted.  But  it's  not 
the  best  thing  —  not  by  a  long  way.  Frankly  I  was 
sceptical  about  The  Dispatch  at  first.  I  thought 
your  friend  Good  was  just  a  crank.  But  the  paper's 
gone  ahead  so  splendidly.  It's  done  such  a  really 
wonderful  work  —  and  then,  you  see,  when  I  waked 
up,  I  saw  things  differently.  The  people  I've  been 
in  contact  with  lately  have  made  me  understand 
Good.  I  used  rather  to  dislike  him.  I  honestly 
admire  him  now." 


ONLY  A  WOMAN  287 

"  Yes,"  said  Judith  quietly,  "  he  is  rather  admir- 
able." Something  in  her  voice  made  Imrie  study 
her  narrowly.  A  wistful  look  crept  into  his  eyes, 
and  he  was  silent.  Judith,  subconsciously,  realised 
the  change  in  him  and  she  hastened  to  shift  the 
topic. 

"  But  this  work  doesn't  take  all  your  time,  does 
it?  What  else  are  you  doing?"  She  rather  ex- 
pected a  denial,  and  his  reply  surprised  her. 

"  No,  it  doesn't,"  he  said,  with  something  of  his 
former  enthusiasm  gone.  "  Or  rather  I  haven't 
told  you  all  of  our  work.  You  see  Weis  has  gone 
into  politics  rather  more  or  less  in  his  own  city, 
and  we're  drifting  that  way,  too.  They  want  me 
to  run  for  alderman.  I  live  downtown  now,  you 
see.  It's  a  bad  ward.  The  decent  people  have 
never  had  a  chance  in  it.  Of  course  it  sounds  silly 
—  but  really  —  I  think  seriously  of  it." 

"  I  don't  think  it  sounds  silly  at  all,"  she  cried. 
"  I  think  it's  splendid.  You  can  count  on  The  Dis- 
patch." 

"  But  The  Dispatch  isn't  partisan,"  he  said  with  a 
smile.  "  It  never  takes  sides." 

'  Well,  it  will  this  time,"  she  declared  truculently. 

He  laughed.  "  You're  still  a  woman,  Judith." 
Then  his  expression  changed,  and  his  voice  was  ten- 
der. "  I  guess  that's  all  you  ever  will  be  —  to  me." 

The  wind  had  shifted,  making  their  refuge  no  Ion- 


288  THIRTY 

ger  comfortable,  and  Judith  suddenly  became  con- 
scious of  the  hour. 

"  Goodness  —  I've  only  ten  minutes  to  get  to 
Mrs.  Dodson's.  Coming  that  way?  " 

He  nodded,  and  fell  in  beside  her.  They  walked 
all  the  way  in  silence.  When  they  reached  the  mag- 
nificent building  in  which  Mrs.  Dodson  slept,  but 
which  seldom  saw  her  when  awake,  Judith  held  out 
her  hand. 

'  You  haven't  been  near  me  for  ages.  Won't 
you  come  —  occasionally  —  as  you  used  to  ?  " 

"  Do  you  really  want  me  to?  "  His  eyes  seemed 
extraordinarily  bright  as  he  put  the  question. 

"  Of  course." 

"  Then  I  will."  He  kept  his  gaze  on  her  for  a 
moment.  With  a  wave  of  his  hand  he  turned 
sharply  on  his  heel,  and  was  on  his  way  as  if  time 
were  precious. 

Never,  she  thought,  as  she  went  into  the  house, 
had  Imrie  looked  quite  so  handsome,  quite  so  virile. 
And  never,  certainly  had  she  extended  an  invitation 
to  him  which  was  more  sincere,  nor  with  the  prospect 
of  its  acceptance  more  wholly  appealing.  Yet  she 
could  not  rid  herself  of  an  inexplicable  sadness. 

It  was  some  time,  as  she  tried  to  listen  attentively 
to  Mrs.  Dodson's  level  voice,  before  the  picture  of  a 
pair  of  glistening  blue  eyes  and  a  head  of  close- 


ONLY  A  WOMAN  289 

cropped,  curly,  blonde  hair,  and  ruddy  cheeks,  and 
a  set  of  firm  white  teeth,  parted  in  a  smile,  half 
wistful,  half  enthusiastic,  ceased  dancing  before  her. 
She  was,  she  concluded,  only  a  woman. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

THE    PILOT   GOES   OVERBOARD 

GOOD  and  Roger  Wynrod  sat  in  the  latter's  office 
one  afternoon,  about  a  week  later,  discussing,  as  was 
their  regular  habit,  the  day's  paper.  This  confer- 
ence had  always  been  a  one-sided  one,  but  of  late  the 
balance  had  shifted.  At  first  Good  had  done  the 
talking  and  Roger  had  listened.  Now  it  was  the 
other  way  around.  That  the  change  was  not  dis- 
pleasing to  Good  was  manifest  from  the  faint  smile 
which  played  around  his  lips.  He  smoked  his  pipe 
gravely  and  had  very  little  to  say.  He  acquiesced 
in  everything  and  made  no  suggestions. 

When  matters  of  a  routine  nature  had  been  dis- 
posed of,  Roger  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and  lighted 
a  cigarette. 

"  I  had  lunch  the  other  day  with  Dick  Menefee, 
Corey's  new  advertising  manager,"  he  said  with  a 
reminiscent  chuckle.  "  He  was  in  my  class  in  col- 
lege —  same  society  and  all  that.  First  thing  he 
asked  me  was  why  The  Dispatch  was  on  their  black- 
list." 

"  I  suppose  you  told  him?  " 
290 


THE  PILOT  GOES  OVERBOARD     291 

"  With  variations.  Also  I  told  him  one  or  two 
things  they  probably  don't  know  at  Corey's." 

"About—?" 

"  Yes.  It  interested  him  because  he  doesn't  cot- 
ton to  Joe  much  better  than  we  do." 

"What  happened?" 

"  Well,  Dick's  an  independent  sort  of  a  chap,  with 
some  fancy  ideas  of  his  own.  He  couldn't  see  why 
they  should  pass  up  a  chance  to  sell  goods  to  our 
readers  just  for  spite.  I  tried  to  explain  it  to  him, 
but  he  didn't  seem  impressed.  He  said  he  was  go- 
ing to  stir  things  up." 

"Did  he?" 

Roger  smiled.  "  Rather !  I  saw  him  again  yes- 
terday. It  seems  they  had  a  most  beautiful  row. 
Dick  resigned  and  Faxon  threatened  to,  and  Corey 
couldn't  make  up  his  mind  whether  he'd  fire  'em  be- 
fore they  had  a  chance  to  resign.  Oh,  it  was  a 
jolly  mess  .  .  .  but  we'll  have  a  contract  like  the 
old  one  in  a  day  or  two !  " 

"Not  really?" 

"  Big  as  life.  Menefee  pointed  out  to  them  that 
while  they  could  use  their  advertising  appropriation 
as  a  club,  it  was  only  a  stuffed  club.  If  any  paper 
'had  sense  enough  to  call  the  bluff  all  they  could  do 
was  to  crawl  as  gracefully  as  possible.  He  raked 
up  a  lot  of  old  records  and  showed  Corey  where  he 
was  losing  cold  dollars  by  staying  out  of  The  Dis- 


292  THIRTY 

patch.  He  said  he  didn't  know  what  the  rest  of 
them  were  but  he  was  a  business  man,  and  he  didn't 
give  a  damn  what  sort  of  stuff  a  paper  ran  if  it  sold 
goods  for  him.  That  struck  the  old  man  as  pretty 
good  sense,  and  he  refused  to  accept  Dick's  resigna- 
tion. Faxon  saw  which  way  the  wind  had  shifted 
and  reefed  his  canvas.  Anyway  .  .  .  they're  com- 
ing back." 

"  The  other  stores  will  follow,  I  suppose." 

"  They're  bound  to,"  cried  Roger.  "  They're 
bluffed  to  a  standstill,  and  they  know  it.  With 
Corey's  backing  down  they've  got  to  follow  suit  — 
pride  or  no  pride." 

"  I  suppose  you're  pretty  pleased,"  said  Good 
with  a  smile. 

"  Pleased?  Honest,  I'm  tickled  pink!  I  feel  as 
if  I'd  been  sitting  in  on  a  sky-the-limit  game  boosting 
the  ante  with  a  pair  of  shoe-strings.  I've  felt  like 
passing  lots  of  times.  Without  you  at  my  elbow  I 
guess  I'd  have  done  it." 

"  You  think  that's  —  unusual?  " 

"  Maybe  not  that.  But  I  do  feel  —  well  —  like 
a  burglar." 

"  My  dear  boy,"  laughed  Good,  "  I'm  not  much 
of  a  business  man,  but  I  think  a  general  show-down 
would  reveal  a  lot  of  jokers  in  front  of  chaps  who 
are  playing  like  royal  flushes.  A  good  face  with  an 
empty  hand  wins  in  other  games  besides  poker. 


THE  PILOT  GOES  OVERBOARD     293 

You  can't  bank  nerve  —  but  you  can  draw  checks  on 
it." 

As  he  finished  speaking,  a  boy  entered  and  handed 
him  a  card.  He  glanced  at  it,  hesitated  a  moment, 
scratching  his  head  thoughtfully,  and  then,  with  an 
inscrutable  smile,  passed  it  to  Roger. 

"  It's  for  you,  lad." 

"  But  didn't  he  ask  for  you  ?  "  said  Roger  sur- 
prisedly. 

"  Yes  —  but  he  made  a  mistake." 

"  All  right  —  show  him  in." 

A  moment  later  a  round  little  man,  with  bulging 
eyes  which  peered  near-sightedly  and  with  a  curi- 
ously worried  expression  from  beneath  a  deeply  fur- 
rowed forehead,  seated  himself  at  the  desk  behind 
which  Roger  was  seated. 

"  Mr.  Good,"  he  began,  "  I  .  .  ." 

Good,  who  had  withdrawn  his  chair  unobtrusively 
into  a  corner,  spoke  quietly. 

"  You're  addressing  Mr.  Wynrod.  He's  the  man 
you  want  to  see." 

The  little  man  did  not  hesitate.  "  I  see.  Well, 
Mr.  Wynrod,  I  am  Mr.  Burdick  —  Philemon  P. 
Burdick.  Possibly  you've  heard  of  me  ? "  He 
paused,  and  when  there  was  no  response,  proceeded, 
apparently  neither  surprised  nor  disappointed. 
"  Evidently  you  have  not.  However,  that  is  im- 
material —  quite  immaterial.  The  purpose  of  my 


294  THIRTY 

call  is  not  to  acquaint  you  with  myself,  but  with  my 
work."  He  paused  again. 

"Yes?" 

"  I  have  come,  sir,  to  seek  your  assistance  —  the 
assistance  of  your  excellent  publication,  I  should 
say." 

Roger  stirred  a  trifle  uneasily,  and  Mr.  Burdick, 
the  worried  expression  in  his  eyes  deepening,  hurried 
on,  as  if  fearful  of  interruption. 

"  First  I  wish  to  congratulate  you  upon  The  Dis- 
patch. It  is  doing  a  noble  work.  The  community 
owes  you  a  debt  of  gratitude,  sir,  a  very  great  debt." 

"  Thank  you,"  murmured  the  young  man  at  the 
desk. 

"  But  there  is  one  thing  —  a  little  thing,  and  yet  a 
great  thing  —  which  you  have  left  undone.  It  is 
my  purpose  now  to  ascertain  your  position  in  the 
matter." 

"  Yes?  "     Roger  looked  puzzled. 

"If  you  knew  me  better  you  would  know  that  I 
am  very  deeply  interested  in  what  is  rather  unfor- 
tunately called  the  single-tax.  Now  .  .  ." 

Again  Roger  stirred,  but  this  time  Mr.  Burdick, 
his  eyes  shining  with  zeal,  and  little  drops  of  per- 
spiration standing  out  all  over  his  forehead,  ap- 
peared not  to  notice  the  fact.  He  continued  as  if 
he  were  conscious  of  no  interruption. 

".  .  .  the  theory  of  the  single-tax  is  so  absolutely 


THE  PILOT  GOES  OVERBOARD     295 

in  accord  with  common  sense  that  one  needs  only 
to  become  familiar  with  it  to  become  enthusiastic. 
All  that  is  necessary  to  make  the  single,  or  land  tax, 
an  accomplished  fact,  and  to  bring  about  immediately 
the  complete  abolition  of  poverty,  sir,  is  publicity. 
But  there's  the  rub — " 

He  halted  a  moment  to  mop  his  glistening  brow. 
His  sincerity  was  indisputable,  but  his  countenance 
was  so  incongruously  droll  that  even  Good,  sitting 
quietly  in  the  shadow,  and  not  feeling  at  all  like 
laughter,  found  it  difficult  to  repress  a  smile. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  continued  Mr.  Burdick,  "  there's  the 
rub.  We  need  publicity.  But  most  avenues,  I  re- 
gret to  say,  are  closed  to  us.  Most  mediums  are 
afraid  of  us.  They  look  upon  us  as  dangerous  radi- 
cals. Of  course  that's  absurd.  Look  at  me  —  do 
/  look  like  a  dangerous  radical?  " 

It  would  have  required  a  bigot  indeed  to  so  char- 
acterise the  stout  little  gentleman  who  looked  as  if 
harsh  words  would  bring  tears  to  his  eyes.  Roger 
made  a  sound  in  his  throat  which  was  meant  to  sig- 
nify derision  at  the  thought,  but  which,  to  Good, 
sounded  suspiciously  like  an  abortive  chuckle. 

"  Yes,  it  is  absurd.  But  the  fact  remains.  Most 
newspapers  are  unwilling  to  advance  the  cause.  In- 
stead of  getting  down  on  their  knees  to  the  memory 
of  Henry  George,  they  deride  it  —  yes,  sir,  they  de- 
ride it!" 


296  THIRTY 

Roger  tried  to  look  his  horror,  and  Mr.  Burdick 
went  on  vigorously. 

"  I  say  most  newspapers.  And  I  say  it  with  a 
purpose,  sir.  I  don't  suppose  you  can  guess  what 
it  is?"  He  smiled  archly,  and  when  Roger  could 
not  guess,  he  added,  with  profound  conviction,  "  The 
Dispatch,  thank  God,  is  not  like  most  papers.  It  is 
free,  daring,  original.  I  ask  you,  sir,  to  use  it  in  a 
cause  worthy  of  all  its  freedom,  its  daring,  its  origi- 
nality. I  ask  you  —  yes,  I  command  you  —  to  put 
its  tremendous  and  growing  power  behind  the  great- 
est movement  of  the  age,  that  .  .  ." 

"  You  mean  .  .  ." 

"  I  mean,"  said  Mr.  Burdick  with  solemnity,  as 
if  he  were  conferring  an  accolade,  "  I  mean  that  I 
seek  the  enlistment  of  The  Dispatch  under  the  glow- 
ing banner  of  the  single-tax." 

He  folded  his  arms  and  waited  for  a  reply. 
Roger  cast  a  troubled  glance  at  Good,  and  turned 
away  helplessly  from  the  blank  countenance  which 
met  him.  It  seemed  to  the  tall  man,  studying  his 
protege  narrowly  through  half-closed  lids,  that  he 
was  indecisive.  But  he  waited  hopefully.  He  was 
not  certain.  Presently  Roger  bit  off  the  end  of  a 
cigar,  and  chewed  it  thoughtfully.  Then  he  squared 
his  shoulders  and  the  light  of  resolution  came  into 
his  eyes.  Good  sighed  contentedly.  He  had  been 
mistaken. 


THE  PILOT  GOES  OVERBOARD     297 

"  I  guess  you  don't  quite  understand  The  Dis- 
patch, Mr.  Burdick,"  said  Roger  quietly,  but  none 
the  less  firmly.  "  It  doesn't  take  sides." 

"  But  the  single-tax  ..." 

"  It  makes  no  difference  what  the  side  is.  We're 
not  partisan." 

"  But,  my  dear  sir,"  cried  Mr.  Burdick,  a  quite 
unsuspected  temper  manifesting  itself.  "  It's  not  a 
political  party.  It's  not  a  religion.  It's  not  — 
dogmatic  in  any  sense.  It's  just  —  an  idea.  You 
seem  to  favour  advanced  ideas.  You  give  space 
.  .  .  why,  you  had  two  columns  about  a  socialist 
meeting  that  was  raided  by  the  police !  " 

"  I  know,"  said  Roger  gently.  "  But  —  that  was 
news." 

The  subtle  distinctions  implied  in  that  sentence 
appeared  to  halt  the  little  man  for  a  moment.  But 
he  was  not  long  daunted. 

"  Well,"  he  cried  triumphantly,  "  wasn't  the  abo- 
lition of  slavery  news?  Wouldn't  the  abolition 
of  poverty  be  news?  My  dear  young  man — " 
His  tone  became  unmistakably  patronising.  "  It 
would  be  the  most  tremendous  piece  of  news  you 
could  possibly  print.  Everything  else  would  pale 
into  insignificance  beside  it.  Why  .  .  ." 

"  Mr.  Burdick,"  Roger's  voice  was  a  trifle  cold. 
The  intimation  of  patronage  had  annoyed  him. 
"  Personally  I  might  have  all  kinds  of  sympathy  with 


298  THIRTY 

the  idea  you  represent.  But  that  has  nothing  to  do 
with  it.  We're  running  a  newspaper  —  nothing 
else.  We  print  news  —  not  opinions.  The  distinc- 
tion must  be  clear  to  you,  I'm  sure."  His  momen- 
tary irritation  had  vanished,  and  he  finished  with  a 
friendly  smile. 

But  Mr.  Burdick's  wrath  was  not  to  be  thus  easily 
assuaged. 

'  Then  you  decline  to  take  any  interest  in  our 
cause?  "  he  demanded  belligerently,  his  sudden  truc- 
ulence  contrasting  very  curiously  with  his  peaceful 
face.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  no  one  could  be  more 
keenly  conscious  of  his  inadequate  appearance  than 
he  was  himself.  More  than  once  he  had  stood  be- 
fore his  mirror  and  cursed  the  image  which  blinked 
timidly  back  at  him.  A  man  of  less  will  would  have 
yielded  and  become  resignedly  subject  to  the  body 
which  Nature  had  imposed  upon  him.  But  Mr. 
Burdick  was  a  man  of  rare  spirit. 

"  You  don't  believe  in  it,  do  you?  "  he  continued, 
in  a  voice  which  had  become  shrill.  "  You're  op- 
posed to  it?  " 

"  On  the  contrary  — " 

"  Then  why  .  .  ."  Obviously  Mr.  Burdick  was 
exasperated. 

"  My  dear  Mr.  Burdick,"  said  Roger  patiently, 
"  I've  already  told  you.  Your  cause  is  a  good  one 
—  sure.  But  so's  the  Y.  M.  C.  A.  So  are  foreign 


THE  PILOT  GOES  OVERBOARD     299 

missions.  So's  the  Republican  Party  —  now  and 
then.  But  causes  aren't  news.  You  talk  about  the 
abolition  of  slavery.  Sure  —  that  was  news  .  .  . 
after  the  abolition.  Go  ahead  and  abolish  pov- 
erty —  I  don't  care  how  little  —  and  we'll  give  you 
the  run  of  the  paper.  But  you've  got  to  break  out. 
You've  got  to  make  news.  If  you  can't  make  it  by 
abolishing  poverty,  hire  a  hall  and  get  pinched  .  .  . 
we'll  give  you  two  columns  too." 

"  If  you  are  endeavouring  to  be  flippant  .  .  ."  be- 
gan Mr.  Burdick,  rising,  and  drawing  himself  up  to 
his  full  height  —  which  was  not  very  impressive,  as 
none  knew  better  than  himself. 

"  No,"  said  Roger  very  earnestly.  "  I'm  not. 
I  never  was  more  serious  in  my  life.  Only  you  won't 
understand.  People  with  axes  to  grind  never  do. 
They  always  get  sore  when  we  won't  help  the  job. 
You  see  .  .  ." 

"  I  shall  wish  you  a  very  good  afternoon,"  said 
Mr.  Burdick  stiffly. 

Roger  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  As  you  please. 
I  hope  the  wish  comes  true." 

The  little  man  ignored  the  persiflage.  He 
clapped  his  hat  down  on  his  head  savagely,  and  beat 
what  was  intended  for  a  very  dignified  retreat,  but 
which,  for  reasons  over  which  the  poor  man  had  no 
control,  fell  short  of  the  intention  in  several  essen- 
tial particulars. 


300  THIRTY 

"  And  say,"  called  Roger,  as  his  visitor  reached 
the  doorway,  "  don't  get  sore.  Drop  in  occasion- 
ally and  have  a  chat." 

The  slamming  door  was  the  only  response. 
Roger  laughed  and  turned  to  Good  who  had  sat 
like  a  graven  image  all  through  the  interview. 

"Well  — how  did  it  go?" 

For  reply  Good  rose  and  stretched  himself  and 
yawned  prodigiously  —  all  of  which  procedure  was 
an  elaborate  simulation  of  emotions  which  he  did 
not  in  the  least  feel.  He  then  walked  over  to  the 
desk  and  carefully  emptied  his  pipe.  And  finally, 
with  sustained  deliberateness,  he  held  out  his  great 
hand. 

"  Put  it  there,  my  boy,"  he  said  gravely.  But 
Roger  had  hardly  complied,  eyeing  him  curiously  the 
while,  when  Good's  hand  dropped  and  he  walked  to 
the  window.  It  was  several  minutes  before  he 
turned  and  met  the  younger  man's  gaze  with  his  own. 

"  I  guess  I  can  go  now,"  he  said  in  a  voice  which 
seemed  at  once  triumphant  and  inexpressibly  sad. 

"  I  don't  understand  .  .  ." 

"  You've  learned  all  I  have  to  teach  you,  lad." 
Good's  deep  voice  was  low,  but  it  reverberated 
sonorously  in  the  little  room.  "  You're  on  the 
bridge  now.  You're  in  deep  water.  You  can  drop 
the  pilot." 

"  What  the  dickens  are  you  driving  at,  anyway?  " 


THE  PILOT  GOES  OVERBOARD     301 

"  I'm  quitting,  Roger."  The  words  were  said 
almost  in  a  whisper,  and  the  deep-set,  wistful  eyes 
gleamed  very  tenderly.  "  My  work's  done.  It's 
up  to  you  now." 

"  You  don't  mean  .  .  .  you're  not  leaving  the 
paper?  Why,  that's  nonsense!  It  can't  be. 
What's  upset  you,  anyhow?  Oh,  come,  this  won't 
do,  you  know.  I  won't  have  it.  I  simply  won't. 
Why,  good  Lord,  man  —  I'd  be  lost!  " 

"  No."  Good  shook  his  head  and  his  voice  vi- 
brated as  if  he  found  it  difficult  to  hold  it  in  check. 
"  You're  free  now.  This  talk  proved  it.  You 
don't  need  me  any  longer.  I've  done  my  work. 
It's  time  to  wander." 

"But  w-w-why?"  stammered  Roger.  "Can't 
you  give  any  reason?  What's  the  trouble  at  the 
bottom  of  it?  You  haven't  had  a  fuss  with  sis, 
have  you?  Surely  you're  not  doing  this  just  because 
I'm  more  on  my  feet  than  I  was  ?  I'm  far  from  not 
needing  you,  God  knows.  Aren't  there  other  rea- 
sons? " 

'  Yes,"  said  Good  dully,  "  there  are  other  rea- 
sons." 

;<  Well,  good  Lord,"  cried  Roger  in  exasperation 
mingled  with  alarm.  "Won't  you  tell  them?" 

"No,"  said  Good  shortly,  "I  won't."  Then, 
abruptly,  he  held  out  his  hand.  "  Good-bye,  lad. 
Here's  luck."  His  voice  broke,  and  he  turned. 


302  THIRTY 

Before  Roger  could  get  around  the  desk  to  him, 
the  door  had  closed  and  he  was  gone. 

The  young  man  stood  with  his  jaw  hanging.  He 
was  utterly  nonplussed.  Good  had  gone  out  of  his 
life  as  suddenly,  as  unreasonably,  as  amazingly  as 
he  had  come  into  it.  He  racked  his  brains  futilely 
for  an  explanation.  Had  he  been  a  trifle  younger 
it  is  probable  that  he  would  have  wept. 

It  was  the  end  of  the  day,  and  darkness  had 
fallen.  But  even  if  it  had  been  the  first  hour  of  the 
morning  he  would  have  gone  home  at  once.  The 
office  had  become  unendurable. 

He  found  Judith  having  tea  with  Imrie.  Though 
of  a  thoroughly  objective  nature,  not  given  to  un- 
necessary straying  into  imaginative  by-paths,  par- 
ticularly those  with  unpleasant  endings,  Roger  was 
far  from  insensible  to  the  grim  irony  of  the  situation. 
He  almost  laughed  as  he  told  his  news. 

Judith  received  the  tidings  more  calmly  than  he 
had  anticipated.  Indeed,  he  could  not  recall,  sub- 
sequently, that  she  said  anything  at  all.  It  is  pos- 
sible, however,  that  she  said  more  than  he  heard. 
The  fact  was  that  rather  more  instinctively  than  con- 
sciously, he  watched,  most  closely,  the  effect  of  the 
intelligence  upon  Imrie. 

But  whatever  Imrie's  emotions,  he  concealed  them 
well.  He  said  very  little,  managing  to  express  his 
surprise  and  regret  with  an  apparently  quite  genuine 


THE  PILOT  GOES  OVERBOARD     303 

sincerity.  In  a  few  moments  he  recalled  a  forgotten 
engagement,  and  left.  It  was  not  lost  upon  Roger 
that  his  tea  was  untasted  .  .  . 

Judith,  however,  recalled  him  to  less  recondite 
speculation. 

"  It's  absurd,  of  course,"  she  said  in  a  voice  which 
struck  him  as  very  strange  and  mechanical.  "  He 
can't  leave  us  like  this.  It's  too  ridiculous."  For  a 
moment  he  thought  her  feeling  was  one  of  resent- 
ment. "Where  can  I  reach  him?"  she  asked 
abruptly.  He  concluded  that  it  was  something  quite 
different. 

"  God  knows,"  he  said.  "  But  don't  worry. 
It's  just  a  tantrum.  He'll  be  back." 

"  Did  you  ever  know  him  to  have  a  tantrum?" 
demanded  Judith,  almost  fiercely.  Roger  was 
startled.  He  had  never  seen  his  sister  look  or  act 
just  like  that  before.  He  tried,  unsucessfully,  to 
guess  what  it  all  signified. 

"  Call  up  the  office  and  see  if  you  can  get  his  ad- 
dress," she  ordered.  Obediently  he  went  to  the 
telephone.  When  he  returned,  she  was  pacing 
slowly  to  and  fro  before  the  fireplace.  Her  mouth 
was  curiously  set,  with  what  sentiments  he  could  not 
tell,  and  her  eye-brows  were  drawn  together  in  two 
deep  incisions.  At  her  unspoken  question  he  shook 
his  head. 

"  But   I   must   find   him  —  I    simply   must,    you 


304  THIRTY 

know,"  she  cried  petulantly,  like  a  child.  He  could 
only  shrug  his  shoulders. 

"  It's  so  utterly  silly,"  she  murmured. 

Suddenly  she  ceased  pacing  the  floor,  to  stand 
staring,  glassy-eyed,  at  him  .  .  .  and  then,  like 
a  pricked  balloon,  she  collapsed  inertly  on  the 
lounge,  her  face  buried  in  her  arms.  Her  heaving 
back  and  the  sound  from  the  cushions,  needed  no 
explanation. 

Roger  stole  softly  from  the  room.  He  wondered, 
uncomfortably,  as  he  went  upstairs,  if  he  would  ever 
understand  women.  Being  about  to  marry  one,  it 
struck  him  that  some  sort  of  understanding  was 
rather  important. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

A   SECRET   REVEALED 


BUT  more  pressing  matters  drove  the  curious  prob- 
lem presented  by  his  sister  and  Good  temporarily  out 
of  Roger's  mind.  He  was  dining  with  Molly  Wol- 
cott  that  evening,  and,  as  he  dressed,  his  thoughts, 
quite  properly,  centred  exclusively  in  her. 

It  was  she  herself,  however,  who  recalled  the  dis- 
tressing situation. 

"How's  Mr.  Good?"  she  asked.  Somewhat  to 
his  surprise  her  father  echoed  the  question,  with 
what  seemed  like  more  than  a  mere  polite  interest. 

Briefly  he  told  the  simple  facts  as  they  had  oc- 
curred, refraining  from  any  attempt  at  explanation. 

"  But  didn't  he  give  any  reason?  "  asked  Mollie 
incredulously,  when  he  had  finished. 

11  Not  a  one." 

"Did  he  say  there  was  a  reason?"  Roger 
thought  it  a  little  odd  that  the  Judge  should  manifest 
such  concern  for  a  person  with  whom  he  could  have 
had  only  the  slightest  acquaintance. 

"  Yes,"  he  admitted,  "  he  did." 

"  But  he  wouldn't  give  it?  " 
305 


3o6  THIRTY 

"  No.  And  he  skipped  so  fast  I  didn't  have 
time  to  press  him  much." 

"Have  you  any  hypothesis?"  The  Judge  fin- 
gered his  watch  chain  nervously.  It  occurred  to 
Roger  that  he  was  making  an  effort  to  seem  only 
mildly  interested. 

;'  Well  .  .  .  yes,  I  have."  Roger  hesitated  for  a 
moment.  The  theory  he  had  formulated  was  not 
one  which  he  cared  to  present.  It  would  be  scorn- 
fully rejected,  he  felt,  before  he  had  an  opportunity 
to  elaborate  it.  And,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  he  was 
forced  to  admit,  it  was  not  a  very  explanatory  theory 
at  best.  It  needed  explanation  in  itself. 

"  Go  on,"  said  Molly.  She  had  noted  his  pause 
and  was  the  more  expectant  in  consequence. 

'  Well  .  .  .  it's  a  funny  thing  —  but  this  busi- 
ness has  been  in  the  air.  I've  noticed  a  different 
spirit  around  the  office  for  a  couple  of  weeks.  You 
know  Good  was  the  idol  of  the  boys  on  the  staff. 
They  were  a  little  suspicious  of  him  at  first,  I  guess. 
He  was  too  good  to  be  true.  Bassett  has  hinted  as 
much.  But  that  wore  off.  He  proved  he  was  no 
fake.  They  came  to  trust  him  absolutely.  Then, 
all  of  a  sudden,  the  whole  thing  seemed  to  change. 
I've  noticed  lots  of  queer  little  things  lately.  The 
boys  have  been  pretty  cool  toward  him.  I've  taxed 
several  of  them  with  it,  but  I  couldn't  get  anything 
out  of  them.  He's  lost  his  hold  on  them.  There 


A  SECRET  REVEALED  307 

isn't  any  doubt  of  that.  He  isn't  the  leader  any 
more.  He's  done  something — I  don't  know  what 
—  but  it  must  have  made  the  boys  pretty  sore.  Any- 
way, they  seem  to  have  sent  him  to  Coventry  for  it. 
I  guess  the  poor  chap  got  so  discouraged  he  just  had 
to  quit.  That's  the  way  I  figure  it  out." 

"  Isn't  that  a  shame,"  cried  Molly.  "  Do  you 
think  he's  to  blame  —  has  he  really  done  something 
awful?" 

"  Blessed  if  I  know."  Roger  shook  his  head 
helplessly.  "  Knowing  the  man  as  I've  known  him, 
I  can't  believe  it.  But  Bassett's  one  of  the  coldest 
of  them  all  —  and  I'd  trust  Bassett  to  the  limit.  It 
certainly  is  a  puzzle."  He  was  silent  for  a  moment. 
Then  he  added  slowly,  as  if  he  were  reluctant  to  put 
his  thought  into  speech:  "Of  course  Good's  led  a 
pretty  hard  life,  you  know.  Maybe  some  of  it  came 
back  on  him  —  maybe  he  had  a  relapse.  Liquor 
had  him  once.  Maybe  .  .  ." 

"  Has  Judith  any  explanation?  "  asked  the  Judge 
suddenly. 

"  None  that  I  know  of." 

"  Was  she  —  surprised?  " 

"  Honestly,  Judge,  I  don't  know,"  said  Roger 
candidly.  "  She  acted  mighty  queer.  First  she 
seemed  surprised,  and  then  she  didn't.  For  a  min- 
ute I  kind  of  thought  she  was  —  well  —  sore.  But 
..."  A  picture  flashed  across  his  memory  of  Ju- 


3o8  THIRTY 

dith  on  the  lounge,  with  the  sobs  shaking  her  shoul- 
ders. "...  I  guess  it  was  disappointment.  She 
thought  the  world  of  Good,  you  know." 

"Indeed,  yes!"  cried  Molly.  "I've  often 
thought  .  .  ."  But  she  never  finished  saying  what 
it  was  she  thought.  Her  father  rose  abruptly. 

"  I  think  if  you  young  people  will  —  er  —  excuse 
me  .  .  ."  His  voice  was  strangely  tremulous. 
"  I'm  a  trifle  tired." 

"  Your  father  looks  kind  of  knocked  up  over 
something,"  said  Roger  when  the  old  man  had  left 
them.  "  Anything  wrong?  " 

Her  face  clouded.  "I  —  don't  know.  He's 
been  awfully  busy.  He's  not  very  well.  That  at- 
tack last  winter  —  he's  never  shaken  it  off,  quite. 
Sometimes  —  I'm  afraid!  Oh,  Roger  —  if  any- 
thing should  happen  .  .  ."  Suddenly  she  burst  into 
wholly  unexpected  tears. 

Roger,  comforting  her,  experienced  a  vague  satis- 
faction, for  which  he  knew  he  should  be  ashamed  — 
but  was  not.  Molly  was  such  a  sturdy  soul,  so 
self-sufficient  and  self-contained,  it  delighted  him 
to  know  that  she  could  cry  .  .  .  just  like  any  ordi- 
nary protectible  woman. 

Upstairs,  in  his  study,  the  Judge  had  seated  him- 
self before  his  desk,  the  tips  of  his  long  white  fin- 
gers clasped  together.  For  a  long  time  he  re- 
mained immobile,  staring  blankly  at  the  wall  before 


A  SECRET  REVEALED  309 

him.  The  single  green-shaded  lamp  at  his  elbow 
cast  grotesque  shadows  at  his  infrequent  movements. 
Finally  he  sighed,  as  if  he  were  very  tired,  and  put 
out  the  light. 

II 

When  the  maid  went  up  with  the  Judge's  coffee 
next  morning,  she  found  him  already  fully  dressed. 

"  Tell  O'Neil  I'll  have  the  car  at  once,"  he  said 
quietly. 

"  But  Miss  Wolcott,  sir,  she's  .  .  ." 

"  At  once,  please." 

In  relaying  the  order  to  the  chauffeur  the  maid 
volunteered  the  interesting  information  that  she  had 
left  the  Judge  swallowing  his  breakfast  with  unprec- 
edented haste,  and  that  the  newspaper  had  not  been 
unfolded.  The  chauffeur,  having  designs  of  a  seri- 
ous nature  upon  her,  was  obliged  to  conceal  his  nat- 
ural repugnance  to  haste,  disassociated  from  a  mo- 
tor: but  he  consoled  himself  with  the  other  part  of 
her  message.  It  was  not  unpleasant  to  discover  in 
the  lady  of  one's  choice  such  evidence  of  keen  per- 
ception He  went  to  his  task  whistling. 

ill 

As  Roger  came  down  to  breakfast  he  fancied  he 
heard  the  front  door  slam.  Judith  was  just  leaving 
the  library. 


3io  THIRTY 

"Having  callers?"  he  asked  cheerfully. 

"  No,"  she  said  shortly.  He  noticed  suddenly 
that  her  face  seemed  bloodless.  Fired  with  a  vague 
suspicion  that  matters  were  not  as  they  should  be, 
he  strolled  over  to  the  window. 

"Whose  car  is  that  outside?  Say  —  that  looks 
for  all  the  world  like  the  Judge.  What's  he  doing 
out  at  this  hour  d'ye  suppose?  " 

"  I'm  sure  I  can't  guess."  Judith's  voice  seemed 
curiously  dry  and  husky.  She  was  gazing  sightlessly 
straight  before  her.  Roger  ached  to  voice  the  ques- 
tions which  rose  in  his  mind,  but  the  expression  on 
his  sister's  face  deterred  him.  He  contented  him- 
self with  studying  her  narrowly. 

It  was  Judith  who  broke  the  silence  first. 

11  Roger,"  she  said  suddenly,  "  I  want  you  to 
arrange  at  once  with  a  detective  agency  to  find  Mr. 
Good." 

"  Oh,  see  here,  sis,"  he  protested.  "  That's  fool- 
ish, you  know.  He'll  come  back  —  give  him  time." 

"  I  can  wait  no  longer,"  said  Judith  coldly. 
"  Please  do  as  I  ask  —  this  morning." 

'  That  was  the  Judge  who  was  here.  He  told 
you  something?"  demanded  Roger  accusingly. 
There  was  no  reply.  He  finished  his  meal  before 
questioning  her  again.  There  was  still  no  reply. 
Then  he  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  left  her.  When 
his  sister's  lips  formed  a  line  like  the  cut  of  a  razor, 


A  SECRET  REVEALED  311 

Roger  knew  the  futility  of  interrogation  or  argu- 
ment. 

Within  an  hour  the  machinery  of  one  of  the  great- 
est systems  of  espionage  in  the  world  was  set  in 
motion  for  the  trifling  purpose  of  locating  the  pres- 
ent whereabouts  of  one  Brent  Good,  described  as 
well  over  six  feet  tall,  with  hazel  eyes,  thin  hair,  a 
large  mouth  and  nose,  heavy  eyebrows,  a  deep  and 
not  unmusical  voice,  a  marked  stoop  to  the  shoul- 
ders, and  wearing  a  suit,  as  Roger  expressed  it, 
"  rather  brown." 


CHAPTER  XV 

"  THIRTY  " —  AND   ANOTHER   STORY 

BUT  the  weeks  rolled  away,  and  although  the  re- 
ports from  the  detective  agency  were  frequent  and 
voluminous  —  as  were  the  bills  —  Good  remained 
as  elusive  as  ever.  Even  Roger,  with  his  dogged 
insistence  that  "  he'd  come  back  all  right,"  grew 
perceptibly  less  and  less  optimistic.  Yet  through  it 
all  Judith  came  and  went  with  her  head  high,  and  a 
smile  always  ready.  Since  that  mysterious  morn- 
ing she  seemed  to  have  undergone  a  subtle  change. 
Certainly  there  was  no  further  evidence  of  the  sul- 
len resentment  which  Roger  had  thought  he  had  de- 
tected at  first.  But  there  remained  an  abstracted- 
ness about  her  which  was  hard  to  fathom.  When 
he  thought  her  listening,  she  seemed  always  to  be 
waiting  for  something.  Indeed,  he  grew  quite  wor- 
ried about  her,  and  would,  in  all  probability  have 
aroused  her  violent  wrath  by  consulting  a  physician, 
had  not  the  fact  of  his  approaching  wedding  driven 
all  such  comparatively  unimportant  matters  out  of 
his  head. 

Imrie  came  increasingly  to  see  her,  and  although 
he  never  said  anything  about  it,  it  was  perfectly  clear 

312 


'THIRTY"— ANOTHER  STORY     313 

that  Judith's  detachment  had  not  escaped  him. 
Only  once  did  he  go  so  far  as  to  voice  his  thoughts. 

"  What  the  dickens  is  Judith  waiting  for, 
Roger?  "  he  demanded  one  evening,  after  a  particu- 
larly unsatisfactory  dinner,  at  which  she  had  made 
no  effort  even  to  appear  attentive.  But  Roger  could 
only  shake  his  head  and  wonder  too  .  .  .  and  in 
two  minutes  forget  everything  in  the  world  save 
Molly  Wolcott. 

The  end  came  one  morning,  when  he  and  Judith 
were  at  breakfast.  He  was  aroused  from  his  news- 
paper by  a  whispered  "  at  last "  from  his  sister. 
Her  colour  was  strangely  high,  and  her  eyes 
sparkled.  She  was  opening  a  letter.  He  watched 
her  closely,  wondering  what  had  happened. 

Suddenly  her  face  blanched,  and  her  hand  went 
to  her  throat  in  a  gesture  which  recalled  to  him  the 
day  he  had  apprised  her  of  Good's  resignation.  A 
faint  little  cry  escaped  her  lips.  For  a  moment  she 
laid  down  the  letter  and  closed  her  eyes.  Then  she 
picked  it  up  again,  and  read  it,  apparently,  to  the 
end. 

''  What's  the  news?  "  he  asked,  willing  no  longer 
to  let  her  inexplicable  demeanour  go  unprobed. 

"  It's  a  letter  from  Good,"  she  said  mechanically. 

"What's  he  say?" 

"  He  says  he's  been  ill.  That's  why  he  hasn't 
been  to  see  us.  He'll  come  as  soon  as  he's  about." 


3i4  THIRTY 

"  I  see."  Roger's  tone  was  lofty.  His  disgust 
was  profound  if  unspoken.  He  was  offended  by 
her  manifest  reluctance  to  confide  in  him,  and  he  did 
not  scruple  to  show  the  fact.  Although  consumed 
with  curiosity  to  know  what  Good  actually  had  writ- 
ten —  and,  indeed,  why  he  had  written  at  all  —  he 
was  too  proud  to  question  her.  With  a  muttered 
grunt,  expressive  of  anything  which  one  might 
choose  to  read  into  it,  he  buried  himself  anew  in  his 
paper,  and  presently,  without  again  referring  to  the 
subject,  left  the  table.  His  manner,  meant  to  show 
a  consciousness  of  injury,  and  at  the  same  time,  readi- 
ness for  conciliation,  produced  no  apparent  effect. 
It  is  doubtful  if  Judith  was  aware  of  his  departure. 
He  left,  therefore,  with  his  chagrin  redoubled,  full 
of  suspicion,  and  utterly  bewildered  at  the  tortuous 
mental  processes  of  all  women,  and  his  sister  in  par- 
ticular. 

Judith  was  still  immersed  in  the  letter.  Its  bold, 
uneven  scrawl  was  familiar,  but  with  an  indefinable 
touch  of  weakness,  never  before  apparent.  The 
paper  was  of  the  cheapest,  a  trifle  soiled,  and  torn 
in  several  places.  It  had  been  written  with  a  soft 
pencil,  it  began,  characteristically,  without  saluta- 
tion. 

"  Some  time  in  the  pleistocene  age,  journalists 
formed  the  habit  of  ending  their  news  despatches 


"  THIRTY  "—  ANOTHER  STORY     3 1 5 

with  the  mystic  symbol,  30.     It  signifies  —  the  end. 

"  I  write  to  tell  you  that  it  looks  as  if  it  was  time 
to  write  30  to  the  tedious  narrative  of  yours  truly. 
In  a  word  —  I'm  not  the  man  I  was.  Which  is  a 
cryptic  way  of  saying  that  I'm  more  ghost  than  flesh 
now,  and  shifting  rapidly.  The  medico,  who  is  a 
poor  liar,  also  has  a  loud  voice  and  doesn't  know 
how  thin  boarding-house  walls  are.  I  heard  him  tell 
the  landlady  that  money  for  medicine  was  a  case  of 
economic  folly.  I  was  a  gone  goose  —  or  words  to 
that  effect. 

"  It's  been  a  long  road  and  mostly  a  hard  one. 
I'm  not  sorry  to  reach  the  end.  You  see,  I  never 
really  learned  how  to  walk.  Now  and  then  I 
thought  I  had.  But  the  thought  was  always  followed 
by  a  tumble.  The  last  was  the  hardest.  I  don't 
want  to  try  any  more.  And  when  a  man  gets  too 
tired  to  try  —  well,  there's  nothing  left  but  crepe, 
is  there? 

"  Really,  the  doctor's  information  is  quite  the 
cheerfullest  thing  I  could  hear.  All  I  ask  is  that 
they  ring  down  the  curtain  on  the  delectable  com- 
edy of  '  Brent  Good,  Misfit,'  as  expeditiously  as 
possible.  From  what  he  said,  I  judge  they 
will. 

"  I've  tried  more  things  in  my  allotted  span  than 
ten  men  ordinarily  try.  And  I've  failed,  with  per- 
fect uniformity,  in  every  one.  I  counted  much  on 


3i6  THIRTY 

The  Dispatch.     I  stubbed  my  spiritual  toe  there, 
too.  .  .  ." 

At  that  point  Judith  had  to  pause,  because  a  mist 
formed  over  her  eyes  and  would  not  let  her  see. 
And  the  next  words  brought  a  lump  into  her  throat, 
which  choked  and  hurt. 

".  .  .  I  hoped  much  —  no,  hope  is  hardly  the 
word  for  what  I  wanted  —  from  you.  And  of 
course  —  as  I  never  for  an  instant  doubted  I  would 
—  I  failed  there.  Now  there's  nothing  left.  I 
wonder  what  the  next  instalment  of  the  yarn  will 
bring.  Do  the  gods,  think  you,  punish  failure  as 
men  do? 

"  But  I  wander.  (My  speculations  to  the  land- 
lady regarding  reincarnation  have  resulted  in  her 
frantic  appeal  to  the  doctor,  with  a  bottle  of  some- 
thing, in  consequence,  by  my  side.  That's  the  scien- 
tific way  of  solving  the  problem  of  immortality.) 
However,  I'm  not  writing  you  now  to  oblige  you  to 
join  with  me  in  conjecturing  as  to  what  lies  in  the 
Other  Room.  It's  this  one,  and  your  place  in  it 
that  troubles  me  now. 

"  I  just  want  to  express  a  sixty-first  second  sort  of 
a  hope  that  you  won't  lose  interest  in  The  Dispatch. 
But  even  as  I  write,  I  know  that  you,  being  quite 
human,  in  all  probability  will.  Strangely  enough  I 


"  THIRTY  "—  ANOTHER  STORY     317 

have  a  feeling  that  Roger  will  be  more  likely  to 
carry  it  through  than  you  will.  Men  can  play  base- 
ball all  their  lives,  when  six  weeks  of  crusading  is 
more  than  plenty.  He'll  go  through  with  it  be- 
cause it's  a  sporting  proposition. 

"  But  you  —  well,  I  guess  one  has  to  starve  be- 
fore he  becomes  a  real  revolutionary.  You'll  have 
to  pay  the  price  the  gods  demand  for  a  full  stomach, 
by  being  a  trimmer  all  your  days.  That  doesn't 
mean  you  won't  do  big  things.  You  will,  and  The 
Dispatch  will  be  only  one  of  them.  But  you  won't 
do  them  quite  as  I  —  being  more  or  less  insane  — 
would  have  you  do  them.  Still,  if  you  were  poor, 
and  therefore  understood  life  as  I  understand  it,  you 
couldn't  do  anything  at  all.  So  I'm  satisfied. 

"  This  is  all  queer  stuff  and  hard  to  understand. 
But  remember,  to  the  natural  eccentricities  of  my  na- 
ture are  added  the  hallucinations  of  approaching  dis- 
solution. 

"  Keep  on  with  the  paper  as  long  as  you  can,  and 
as  bravely  as  you  can.  Don't  yield  to  the  discour- 
agement which  will  always  be  just  over  your  shoul- 
der, because  it  accomplishes  little.  Never  forget 
that  you're  only  a  link  in  a  chain.  If  you  keep  your 
link  sound  you've  done  about  all  you  can  do.  To 
you  life  is  long,  and  the  world  putty  in  your  hands. 
But  after  all,  you're  only  an  atom  on  the  everlasting 
shore. 


3i8  THIRTY 

"  The  Dispatch  is  the  paper  of  Truth.  All  re- 
formers —  most  hypocrites  —  sing  the  same  song. 
It  seems  the  easiest  thing  in  the  world  to  tell  the 
truth.  But  I  know  there  is  nothing  harder.  And 
it's  not  because  truth  frequently  clashes  with  the 
human  side  of  our  lives  —  though  God  knows  that 
is  hard  enough  —  but  because  no  one  knows  what 
truth  is. 

"  It's  a  struggle  worthy  of  fine  souls  to  tell  the 
truth.  But  it's  a  far  greater  struggle  to  know  what 
the  truth  is. 

"  It  is  that  struggle,  being  the  only  precious  thing 
I  have,  that  I  bequeath  to  you. 

"  There  is  nothing  more  to  say,  I  guess,  save  to 
wish  you  well.  You  will  doubtless  marry  the  dom- 
inie. I  used  to  hate  him,  very  largely  for  that  fact. 
But  now,  as  I  lie  here,  on  a  cool,  high  mountain,  far 
from  the  blinding  heat  of  passion  (that's  a  good 
line,  don't  you  think?)  things  look  differently. 
When  he  stood  between  you  and  me,  he  cast  a  mon- 
strous shadow.  Now  I  see  him  for  what  he  is. 
He's  just  a  fellow-traveller  on  the  road  I  have  tried 
to  walk  —  on  your  side  of  it.  May  God  give  you 
both  all  that  I  would  have  him  give  me. 

"  As  my  final  request  (this  has  been  full  of  '  final 
requests,'  hasn't  it!)  I  ask  that  you  forget  me  as 
promptly  and  as  thoroughly  as  you  can.  My  role 


"THIRTY"— ANOTHER  STORY    319 

in  your  life  has  been  played.     Let  me  get  off  the 
stage  now,  and  stay  off  for  keeps. 

"  Forget  me  —  the  Fool.  Remember,  please, 
only  the  things  I  groped  for  —  the  Angel.  Good- 
bye." 

For  a  long  time  Judith  sat  staring  stonily  at  the 
irregular  black  lines,  wandering  stormily,  like  the 
life  of  their  author,  over  the  tattered  paper.  She 
fingered  the  envelope  listlessly.  It  bore  no  address. 

When  the  maid  came  to  remove  the  breakfast 
things,  she  was  dumfounded  to  discover  her  mis- 
tress with  her  head  in  her  hands,  but  quite  silent. 
Frightened,  she  withdrew  quickly,  to  convey  the 
strange  intelligence  below  stairs. 

Upon  her  return,  in  obedience  to  the  disgusted 
promptings  of  the  cook,  who  thought  she  was  fool- 
ish ever  to  have  left  so  interesting  a  scene,  she  found 
Judith  just  rising  from  the  table,  very  pale,  but  other- 
wise as  calm  and  self-contained  as  usual. 

"  I  want  the  car  at  once,"  she  said,  a  little  huskily. 
And  when  the  maid  hesitated  stupidly,  she  added  in 
a  tone  which  was  almost  fierce,  "  At  once  —  do  you 
hear?" 

"I've  never  seen  her  look  like  that  —  never!" 
declared  the  maid  when  she  was  safe  below  stairs 
again. 


320  THIRTY 

'  There's  things  the  likes  o'  you  can't  under- 
stand," said  the  cook  darkly. 

"  What  d'ye  mean?  "  cried  the  kitchen  in  chorus. 

"  I  believe  I'm  able  to  keep  the  secrets  as  are  in- 
trusted to  me,"  said  the  cook  very  haughtily,  and 
with  a  finality  which  encouraged  no  further  interro- 
gation. Safely  concealed  behind  the  day-old  news- 
paper—  useful  shield  in  time  of  distress  —  she  con- 
cluded that  her  prestige  had  been  rather  strengthened 
than  otherwise  by  the  incident.  The  chauffeur's 
eldest  boy  chuckled  furtively,  to  be  sure,  but  then,  he 
was  an  impertinent  brat,  whose  opinion  was  of  no 
consequence  whatever. 

While  the  kitchen  buzzed  with  suppressed  specu- 
lation, Judith  was  closeted  with  a  placid  little  man 
whose  business  was  the  disclosure  of  other  peoples' 
secrets. 

"  I  have  a  clue,  I  think,"  she  cried  breathlessly. 

'Yes?"  His  tone  was  quite  noncommittal. 
Years  of  disillusionment  had  robbed  him  of  all  en- 
thusiasm. 

"  I  have  a  letter  —  this  .  .  ."  She  drew  Good's 
tattered  scrawl  from  her  bag.  The  detective  held 
out  his  hand  —  and  drew  it  back  empty.  It  was  his 
business  to  see  things  which  were  not  intended  for 
him  to  see,  and  her  sudden  flush  was  not  lost  upon 
him.  Nor  did  the  involuntary  movement  of  her 
hand,  with  the  letter,  toward  the  bag,  escape  him. 


"THIRTY"— ANOTHER  STORY    321 

But  by  not  so  much  as  the  flutter  of  an  eyelid  did 
his  countenance  change. 

"No  address  given,  I  suppose?" 

"  No." 

"May  I  see  ...  the  envelope?"  He  noticed 
that  her  blush  was  more  pronounced  as  she  handed 
it  to  him.  And  as  he  held  it  up  to  the  light  and 
seemed  to  be  studying  it  intently,  he  was  really  con- 
sidering the  different  features  of  what  was,  even  to 
him,  a  distinctly  unusual  case.  Why  was  this  young 
woman  so  tremendously  desirous  of  locating  an  ob- 
scure journalist  that  she  employed  detectives  for  the 
purpose?  And  why  did  she  colour  and  hold  so 
tenaciously  to  a  note  from  him?  On  the  face  of  it  it 
looked  like  a  typical  bit  of  soiled  linen  in  high  place 
—  cases  of  which  sort  he  was  familiar  with  to  the 
point  of  ennui.  But  his  professional  eminence  had 
not  been  attained  merely  through  industry:  he  was 
possessed  of  considerably  more  than  a  normal  share 
of  intuition  —  and  intuition  made  the  natural  hy- 
pothesis untenable.  He  shrugged  his  shoulders. 
To  find  Good  —  as  he  studied  the  postmark  on  the 
envelope,  he  dismissed  that  problem  as  unworthy  of 
his  ability.  But  to  explain  why  Miss  Judith  Wyn- 
rod  wanted  to  find  him  —  that,  he  admitted  quite 
frankly  to  himself,  was  another  matter. 

Matters  which  he  did  not  understand  were  never- 
theless an  inevitable  part  of  his  daily  routine.  He 


322  THIRTY 

had  long  since  ceased  to  allow  any  diversion  from  the 
hard  business  in  hand  by  even  the  most  fascinating 
of  speculation.  And  obstacles  did  not  halt  him  long. 
Like  the  ant,  he  never  stopped  to  scale  them :  he  went 
around.  It  was  very  much  quicker  —  and  time  was 
of  importance. 

As  if  it  were  of  trifling  consequence,  he  handed 
back  the  letter  from  Good.     "  I'll  phone  you  when 
we  learn  anything,"  he  said  indifferently. 
'You  think  —  you  can  find  him?" 

The  detective  raised  his  palms.  "  That  is  hard 
to  say." 

"  But  you  will  do  your  best?  " 
'  That  goes  without  saying." 

He  smiled  quizzically  as  he  spoke.  For  the  first 
time  he  noticed  how  attractive  his  client  was.  A 
vague  regret  flitted  across  his  mind  that  if  he  disap- 
peared there  would  be  no  one  to  seek  him  with  such 
eagerness.  He  dismissed  the  thought  quickly,  how- 
ever. One  in  his  position  had  no  time  for  such  non- 
sense. Time  was  too  valuable  to  be  wasted  in 
dreaming.  The  Woman  faded:  only  the  Case  re- 
mained. He  fell  to  drumming  on  the  desk  with  his 
pencil,  and  Judith  realised  that  he  asked  nothing 
further  of  her.  She  thanked  him  and  rose.  Si- 
lently he  opened  a  private  door  leading  to  the  hall- 
way, bowed  courteously  as  she  passed  him,  and  went 
back  to  his  desk  as  if  he  had  already  forgotten  her. 


"  THIRTY  "—  ANOTHER  STORY     323 

Judith  went  home  at  once,  and  all  through  the 
morning,  she  saw  to  it  that  she  was  not  very  far  from 
the  telephone.  Every  time  it  rang  her  heart  pounded 
a  little  harder,  and  each  time  that  the  call  was  not 
what  she  hoped  it  would  be,  disappointment  became  a 
little  more  keen,  the  fear  of  failure  a  little  more  pro- 
nounced. 

The  maid  who  served  luncheon  reported  to  the 
kitchen  that  her  mistress  had  tasted  nothing. 

"What  did  I  tell  ye?"  said  the  cook  with  pro- 
found mysteriousness,  and  even  the  chauffeur's 
boy,  who  could  not  recall  that  she  had  told  anything, 
was  silenced.  "  There's  things  goin'  on  in  this 
house,"  she  declared  impressively,  when  she  ob- 
served that  the  silence  about  her  was  respectful,  "  as 
how  none  of  ye  understand."  There  was  no  denial. 

At  about  three  o'clock,  Judith  heard  the  first 
news. 

'  The  postmark,  of  course,  told  us  the  general 
locality,"  said  the  placid  voice  over  the  telephone, 
speaking  very  slowly  and  distinctly.  "  I  have  just 
heard  from  one  of  my  operatives  who  has  been  in- 
vestigating the  drug-stores  in  the  neighbourhood, 
that  he  expects  to  locate  a  doctor  at  any  time,  who 
will  be  able  to  supply  the  rest  of  the  information  we 
seek.  It  may  be  an  hour  —  perhaps  two  —  perhaps 
not  to-day.  But  I  think  I  can  assure  you  of  ultimate 


324  THIRTY 

Judith  thanked  him  so  calmly  that  the  detective 
wondered.  Had  he  seen  the  expression  of  her  face 
as  she  hung  up  the  receiver,  he  would  have  wondered 
still  more. 

But  as  three  o'clock  merged  into  four,  and  four 
rolled  away  into  five,  with  no  further  report,  Ju- 
dith's restlessness  gave  place  to  resignation.  And 
when,  just  as  it  was  turning  dark,  the  maid  an- 
nounced Imrie,  she  was  able  to  welcome  him  as  un- 
affectedly as  if  not  a  care  clouded  her  sky. 

It  was  merely  a  reaction,  of  course,  quite  inevi- 
table after  the  strain  of  anxiety  and  suspense  under 
which  she  had  laboured  for  days:  but  he  was  not 
aware  of  that.  All  he  knew  was  that  Judith  was 
again  the  person  he  had  known  and  loved  so  long 
ago.  Back  upon  him  rushed  the  passion  which  had 
been  quiescent  before  her  detached  indifference.  As 
she  stood  before  him,  her  eyes  sparkling,  her  teeth 
gleaming,  in  smiles  the  like  of  which  he  had  not 
seen,  it  seemed,  since  they  were  children  together,  all 
the  hopes  and  dreams,  so  long  dormant,  sprang  to 
his  lips. 

"  Ah,  Judith,  girl !  "  he  cried,  as  he  jumped  to 
his  feet  and  faced  her.  "  It's  got  to  come  out  again. 
I  can't  help  it  —  I  don't  want  to  help  it.  I  .  .  ." 

A  look  of  something  akin  to  terror  flashed  into 
Judith's  eyes.  "  Don't,  Arnold  —  please  —  you 
mustn't  .  .  ."  She  drew  away,  almost  as  if  she 


"THIRTY"— ANOTHER  STORY     325 

feared  him.     The  movement,  slight  though  it  was, 
hurt  him  infinitely. 

"  I  suppose  it's  foolish,"  he  said  wistfully.  "  You 
made  that  pretty  clear  once.  But  I  can't  help  think- 
ing that  things  are  different  now.  I'm  not  better 
than  I  was  then  —  but  I  know  myself  better.  I  was 
a  prig  —  full  of  pride  —  conceited.  At  least  I'm 
not  that  any  more.  I'm  only  .  .  ."  Suddenly  he 
stopped  and  eyed  her  narrowly. 

'  Tell  me,  Judith,"  he  demanded,  "  is  it  because 
—  there's  someone  else?  " 

He  was  not  sure  whether  she  had  shaken  her  head 
or  not.  It  had  become  very  dark.  He  waited  a 
moment,  and  when  she  said  nothing,  he  moved  a  step 
nearer  again.  They  were  almost  touching  each 
other,  and  the  faint  fragrance  of  her  hair  in  his 
nostrils,  the  soft  roundness  of  her  shoulders,  over- 
whelmed him.  He  trembled  violently,  and  his 
voice  shook. 

"  Judith  .  .  ."  The  words  came  low  but 
strongly.  "  I've  —  I  love  you.  Do  you  hear  — 
I  love  you.  I  want  you  —  can't  you  see  it?  I've 
loved  you  ever  since  I  knew  what  the  word  meant. 
I  love  you  more  now  than  I  ever  did  before.  I've 
forced  myself  to  wait,  to  hope,  to  be  patient.  I 
thought  that  perhaps  .  .  .  Judith,  my  dearest,  I 
can't  do  that  any  longer.  I  can't  trust  myself  near 
you  any  more.  The  strain  of  appearing  calm  and 


326  THIRTY 

contented  when  I'm  here  leaves  me  wretched  after- 
ward. I've  tried  hard  to  feel  it  as  well  as  seem  it. 
But  it's  no  use.  I  can't.  Even  my  work's  no  help. 
You're  between  me  and  it  all  the  time.  I  hoped  it 
would  bring  me  nearer  to  you.  But  something  — 
someone  —  it  simply  can't  go  on.  I  can't  stand  it. 
Either  you  marry  me  —  or  we've  got  to  separate  for 
good.  I  ..." 

"Arnold  —  what  nonsense!"  cried  Judith. 
"  Why  .  .  ."  As  she  lifted  her  eyes  and  felt  his 
hot  gaze  upon  her,  she  caught  her  breath  and  was 
silent.  Neither  spoke  for  what  seemed  hours,  the 
only  sound  the  ticking  of  the  great  clock  in  the  hall. 
Then,  with  a  suddenness  that  stunned,  Imrie's  strong 
arms  were  around  her. 

"  I  guess  you  need  to  be  taken,  my  girl !  "  The 
words  seemed  driven  through  his  teeth.  "  I've  been 
too  .  .  .  polite.  The  last  time  I  kissed  you  I  was 
ashamed  of  myself.  I  think  if  I'd  kissed  you  twice 
I'd  have  you  now.  But  it's  never  too  late  .  .  ." 

Imrie  had  a  powerful  frame.  She  was  impotent 
to  prevent  the  eager  kisses  he  showered  upon  her. 

"  Too  polite !  "  he  ground  from  between  set  jaws, 
"  Not  enough  —  sheer  man  .  .  ." 

And  then,  with  the  force  of  a  blow,  the  gust  of 
passion  vanished,  as  he  realised  that  she  was  not 
struggling.  She  lay  in  his  arms,  her  eyes  closed,  as 
if  she  h'ad  swooned,  but  with  the  faintest  of  smiles 


11  THIRTY  "—  ANOTHER  STORY     327 

playing  around  her  lips.  He  felt  suddenly  sheepish 
and  awkward.  He  had  seized  her  with  the  force  of 
desperation,  bent  upon  having  his  will  with  her, 
whether  she  would  or  no.  He  had  half  expected 
her  to  scream  or  scratch,  to  play  the  primal  woman 
to  his  primal  man.  Yet  here  she  was,  lying  quiet 
in  his  arms,  as  if  —  as  if  ...  she  liked  it!  It  was 
incredible.  It  was  like  stooping  to  pick  up  a  great 
weight,  only  to  find  it  tissue  paper.  He  was  thrown 
back  upon  himself,  all  weak  and  trembling  and 
amazed  and  delighted  ...  a  complex  of  more 
emotions  than  he  could  possibly  enumerate.  But 
as  he  strove  to  articulate,  to  say  something,  how- 
ever banal,  he  became  aware  that  Judith's  eyes  had 
opened. 

It  was  an  absurd  thought,  he  told  himself,  but  she 
seemed  to  be  listening  —  and  not  to  him.  Then  he 
became  conscious  of  a  bell  ringing  somewhere  in  the 
house,  and  suddenly  Judith  sprang  from  him  like 
an  arrow  from  a  bow. 

He  sat  down  helplessly.  All  his  tired  brain  could 
formulate  was  a  question  without  words.  His  arms 
seemed  strangely  weary  ...  as  if  he  had  been 
carrying  a  dead  weight. 

In  a  very  few  minutes  Judith  reappeared. 

[<  I've  found  it,"  she  said,  with  an  air  of  impart- 
ing information  for  which  he  had  long  been  wait- 
ing. "  I'm  going  over  at  once." 


328  THIRTY 

"You've  found  it?"  he  echoed  stupidly. 
"You're  going  over?  What?  Where?  I  don't 
understand." 

"  Brent  Good's,"  she  said  quietly,  already  pulling 
on  her  gloves.  "  He's  ill." 

"  Oh."  The  words  were  enough  to  galvanise 
Imrie  into  action.  He  jumped  to  his  feet,  his  jaw 
set.  "  I  shall  go  with  you,"  he  said.  It  was  not 
uttered  as  a  threat,  nor  yet  as  an  offer.  Judith  di- 
vined it  for  what  it  was  —  a  statement  of  fact.  But 
she  tried  to  protest. 

"  It's  not  at  all  necessary." 

"  I  shall  go  with  you,"  he  repeated,  with  an  air 
of  believing  that  no  human  power  could  possibly 
prevent  it.  And  Judith,  with  a  recollection  of  his 
recent  amazing  outburst  of  masterfulness,  said  no 
more. 

He  seized  her  hand  when  they  were  in  the  auto- 
mobile, and  she  made  no  effort  to  withdraw  it.  But 
something  told  him  that  she  was  not  even  conscious 
that  he  held  it.  After  a  little,  he  released  it.  She 
had  gone  very  far  away  from  him  again,  he  thought 
sadly,  as  he  watched  her  staring  wide-eyed  out  into 
the  darkness.  It  seemed  clear  enough  now  where 
she  had  gone,  but  there  was  no  less  grief  at  the  go- 
ing, for  the  knowledge.  The  swing  of  Irmie's  hope 
had  reached  its  amplitude  in  those  brief  moments 
he  had  held  her  unresisting  in  his  arms.  It  reached 


"  THIRTY  "—  ANOTHER  STORY     329 

its  lowest  ebb  on  that  silent  ride  to  the  home  of  his 
rival. 

He  noticed,  as  he  turned  also  to  stare  out  of  the 
window,  that  boulevards  were  giving  place  to  meaner 
streets.  Car-tracks  were  more  in  evidence,  and  peo- 
ple, particularly  children,  more  numerous.  From 
the  increased  jolting,  the  change  in  the  character  of 
the  pavements  was  obvious.  For  a  little  while  they 
rolled  down  a  very  brightly  lighted  thoroughfare, 
lined  with  shops  and  moving-picture  theatres,  and 
crowded  with  vehicles  and  humanity.  Then  they 
turned  into  a  street  which  was  hardly  lighted  at  all, 
lined  with  tall,  narrow  buildings,  entered  through 
steep,  high  porches.  A  few  minutes  later  the  car 
stopped. 

Imrie  followed  Judith  up  the  precipitous  ascent 
to  one  of  the  tall,  narrow  buildings.  Vaguely  un- 
pleasant odours  assailed  him  even  before  the  front 
door  was  opened. 

"  I  would  like  to  see  Mr.  Good,"  said  Judith  to 
the  round-shouldered  slattern  who  answered  the 
bell.  The  latter  nodded  dubiously  for  a  moment, 
before  she  disappeared  down  the  dark  and  narrow 
hall.  Imrie  noticed  that  she  limped  as  she  walked, 
and  that  her  underskirt  showed  on  one  side.  From 
somewhere  below  a  nauseous  odour  of  stale  cooking 
drifted  up.  It  was  reminiscent  to  him  of  schoolday 
cabbage  and  boiled  things.  He  watched  Judith  in 


330  THIRTY 

the  huge  mirror  which  hung  to  one  side.  It  was 
cracked  rather  badly,  and  one  of  the  corners  of  its 
finger-marked  black  frame  had  separated. 

Presently  a  stout,  red-faced  woman  with  untidy 
hair,  appeared  from  the  passageway  where  the 
young  girl  had  disappeared.  She  was  using  her 
apron  to  wipe  alternately  her  hands  and  the  perspira- 
tion which  exuded  copiously  from  her  forehead. 
One  of  her  eyes  was  slightly  crossed,  giving  her  a 
curious  aspect,  half  comic,  half  malevolent. 

"  I  would  like  to  see  Mr.  Good,  if  I  may,"  re- 
peated Judith  pleasantly,  as  she  approached. 

The  stout  woman  raised  her  hand  with  a  gesture 
of  regret.  "Pshaw  now  —  you're  too  late." 

"  Too  late?  "  echoed  Judith,  her  voice  trembling. 

"  Yiss,  it's  too  bad,  surely,"  said  the  woman 
calmly.  "  He  died  goin'  on  two  days,  it  is." 

For  an  instant  Imrie  thought  that  Judith  was  go- 
ing to  faint.  All  the  colour  left  her  face.  As  she 
stood  there,  trembling  and  swallowing  hard,  her  pal- 
lor showing  green  in  the  dim  and  flickering  gas- 
light, he  thought  he  had  never  seen  anything  more 
pitiful. 

"Was  you  a  friend  of  his'n?"  asked  the  stout 
woman,  apparently  rather  surprised  at  the  reception 
of  her  intelligence. 

'  Yes,"  whispered  Judith,  drawing  the  words  in 
through  compressed  lips,  "  I  was  a  —  friend." 


"  THIRTY  "—  ANOTHER  STORY     33 1 

Then  she  removed  her  hand  from  the  newel  post, 
which  had  steadied  her,  and  drew  herself  erect  with 
what  seemed  like  a  physical  effort. 

"  I  wonder  if  it  would  be  possible  to  ...  has  his 
room  —  been  changed?  Could  I  ...  see  it?" 

"  Bless  yer  heart,  child,  that  ye  may,"  said  the 
landlady  sympathetically,  as  if  she  had  solved  the 
problem.  Imrie  hated  her  violently  for  her  solu- 
tion. "  Jist  step  this  way,"  she  added  soothingly. 

She  led  the  way  up  interminable  flights  of  stairs, 
which  creaked  and  groaned  no  matter  how  lightly 
they  tried  to  walk.  Finally  they  stopped  climbing, 
and  proceeded  down  a  narrow  hall,  lighted,  after  a 
fashion,  by  a  single  gas  lamp.  Every  now  and  then 
a  draft  from  somewhere  set  it  quivering  gustily. 

Judith  was  walking  as  if  in  a  dream.  Imrie  felt 
certain  that  she  saw  none  of  the  sights  which  he 
saw,  nor  heard  the  sounds,  nor  smelled  the  odours. 
But  he  was  wrong.  She  felt  them  all  with  ten  times 
the  keenness  that  he  did. 

At  length  their  guide  halted,  breathing  heavily, 
and  after  fumbling  with  a  bunch  of  rusty  keys, 
swung  open  a  door  which  creaked  dismally.  A 
breath  of  air,  faintly  pungent  with  the  odour  of 
drugs,  came  from  the  room  beyond. 

Judith  and  Imrie  stood  silently  waiting  in  the  hall. 
The  only  sound  was  a  muttered  imprecation  from 
the  landlady  as  she  stumbled  into  something  in  her 


332  THIRTY 

search  for  the  light.  When  she  found  it,  the  jet 
was  clogged,  and  it  whistled  and  danced  as  if  ani- 
mate, piping  a  march  to  their  entrance. 

The  room  was  incredibly  small,  one  wall  being  re- 
duced to  less  than  the  height  of  a  man  by  the  sharp 
slope  of  the  roof:  and  there  was  only  one  window. 
It  was  a  vivid  moment,  even  to  the  stout  woman, 
who  did  not  understand  it  at  all.  To  Imrie,  who 
thought  he  understood  it,  but  did  not,  the  back- 
ground of  the  play  was  burned  into  his  memory  never 
to  be  erased. 

He  was  keenly  cognisant  of  the  places  where  the 
wood  floor  showed  through  the  dingy  carpet,  and  the 
black  spots  on  the  iron  bedstead  from  which  the 
paint  had  chipped  off.  He  saw,  too,  the  serrated 
edges  of  the  water  pitcher,  and  the  discoloured  mar- 
ble top  of  the  rickety  wash  basin.  The  poverty  of 
the  little  room,  intensified  by  its  very  neatness, 
struck  him  with  a  clarity  which  hurt. 

But  most  of  all,  he  noticed  the  books.  They  were 
everywhere,  for  the  most  part  ancient  in  appearance, 
but  with  the  subtle  difference  between  the  age  of  use 
and  that  merely  of  years.  There  was  a  set  of 
shelves,  with  its  flimsy  boards  bending  under  them. 
They  were  piled  under  the  bed,  in  corners,  on  the 
mantel  ...  he  stopped  when  he  reached  the  man- 
tel, partly  from  Judith's  half-uttered  cry,  partly  from 
what  he  saw. 


"THIRTY"— ANOTHER  STORY     333 

It  was  a  photograph,  in  a  cheap  gilt  frame,  of 
Judith  herself,  apparently  cut  from  some  newspaper. 
It  was  the  only  picture  in  the  room.  Aside  from 
the  books,  it  was  the  only  thing  which  did  not  be- 
long to  the  boarding-house.  Imrie  felt  a  lump  rise 
in  his  throat.  He  heard  Judith's  voice  faintly. 

She  was  asking  matter-of-fact  questions  quite 
calmly,  but  the  effort  it  was  costing  her  was  manifest. 
The  landlady,  who  was  superstitious,  was  very  glad 
that  the  silence  had  been  broken.  She  talked  vol- 
ubly. 

"  Yiss,  he  was  buried  all  right  and  reg'lar.  No, 
there  was  no  fun'ral.  He  said  as  how  'twas  need- 
less expense.  No,  there  was  no  friends,  'cept,  o' 
course,  a  few  of  us  here-abouts.  He  wouldn't  'ave 
nobody  notified.  He  said  as  how  nobody  cared.  I 
think  m'self  'e  wandered  a  bit.  He  talked  wild, 
it  seemed  to  me.  No,  'e  didn't  suffer  none  —  not  as 
I  could  see.  His  books?  Oh,  'e  sold  'em. 
They're  comin'  for  'em  to-morrer.  He  wanted  the 
money  given  to  a  Jew  boy  that's  sick  downstairs. 
He  was  queer,  Mr.  Good  was,  but  'e  was  allus  free 
with  'is  money,  that  'e  was." 

"What  about  the  picture?"  Judith's  voice  was 
strained  and  hoarse. 

"  Oh,  that?  He  told  me  to  send  it  to  some  lady. 
Funny  name,  it  was.  I  got  it  downstairs.  I  been 
too  busy  to  attend  to  it.  What  with  the  dyin'  and 


334  THIRTY 

the  buryin'  an'  all,  not  to  mention  the  cookin' —  and 
two  parties  moved  out  to-day,  an'  .  .  ." 

'Was  it  Wynrod  —  the  name?"  asked  Judith 
gently. 

A  light  broke  over  the  stout  woman's  face. 
"  Sure  now,  that  was  it.  But  how  did  ye  know?  " 
Her  eyes  narrowed  suspiciously. 

"  I  am  Miss  Wynrod." 

"  Oh,  so  that's  it,  is  it.  Well  then,  ye  can  be 
takin'  it  an'  save  me  the  trouble.  An'  by  the  way 
—  there's  a  letter,  too.  I  fergot  about  that.  One 
moment  an'  I'll  have  it  fer  ye  .  .  ." 

She  disappeared  noisily.  Judith  stood  staring  out 
of  the  window.  Imrie  tried  to  fix  his  attention  upon 
the  books,  but  his  eyes  kept  wandering  miserably  to 
Judith's  unresponsive  back,  drooping  like  a  wilted 
flower.  Neither  spoke.  The  stout  woman  returned 
in  a  surprisingly  short  time,  considering  her  bulk. 

"  Here  'tis,"  she  cried  cheerfully,  puffing  like 
some  inadequate  engine.  "  I  spilt  a  little  cranberry 
on  it,  but  that  won't  hurt  the  inside."  She  handed 
the  envelope  to  Judith  and  stood  waiting  expectantly. 

But  Judith  turned  and  accepted  it  without  a  word, 
her  grey  face  as  immobile  as  if  made  of  stone. 
Quietly  she  moved  nearer  the  whistling  gas-light, 
and  after  a  pause,  as  though  she  were  girding  her- 
self for  a  struggle,  she  tore  the  flap  quickly. 

It  was  a  short  note : 


"  THIRTY  "—  ANOTHER  STORY     335 

"  Dearest  of  Friends : 

"  This  is  my  *  thirty.'  My  story's  done  —  the 
candle's  out. 

"  But  after  all,  each  one  of  us  is  only  a  page  — 
perhaps  only  a  letter  —  in  the  great  Book.  We're 
blotted  out  or  torn  away,  but  the  Story  goes  on  — 
always. 

"  The  forms  are  closed  on  my  tale.  The  wires 
are  dead.  But  there's  *  more  to  follow '  in  your 
story.  And  the  big  Yarn  isn't  finished  because  my 
take's  all  set.  Even  when  the  Foreman  puts  the 
blue  envelope  in  your  box,  even  then  —  there  will 
be  '  more  to  follow.' 

"  I  have  loved  you  well." 

Still  moving  like  an  automaton,  she  folded  the 
scrap  of  paper  and  placed  it  carefully  in  her  bag. 
Then,  as  if  she  could  not  speak,  she  bowed  to  the 
landlady,  who  surveyed  her  in  patent  disappoint- 
ment, and  walked  slowly  from  the  room.  Imrie 
followed,  understanding  something  of  her  suffering, 
impotent  to  help. 

But  once  in  the  automobile,  he  could  stand  it  no 
longer. 

"  Oh,  Judith,  Judith,"  he  cried  brokenly,  "  won't 
you  let  me  .  .  ."  He  put  his  arm  around  her  and 
drew  her  to  him. 

She  freed  herself  mechanically. 


336  THIRTY 

"  No,  Arnold,"  she  said  very  gently.     "  Not 
not  now  .  .  ." 

Then  the  tears  came. 


FINIS 


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